


Secondhand Pain

by buffypeppers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - Fandom, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Civil War Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit only in chapter 20, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, M/M, Multi, No Bashing, POV Multiple, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Vision, Smut, Steve Rogers is a mother hen, This wasn't planned, Threesome - F/M/M, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, actually everyone has issues, come for the angst stay for the fluff, don't know what happened, oh look stucky, rare relationship, so many feelings, thanks marvel, that's how it started, you know that post about Mantis touching Tony?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-05-14 23:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 108,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14779451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffypeppers/pseuds/buffypeppers
Summary: Almost a year has passed since the disaster that were the Sokovia Accords and the Avengers broke up. Tony is dealing with the fallout, trying to bring the former Avengers back, knowing Earth is going to need all of them when sooner or later the battle of New York repeats itself.Now there’s an alien spaceship in his backyard and Tony regrets not taking that nap F.R.I.D.A.Y. suggested.‘‘You may know us,’’ says Quill with a smug smirk playing on his face and standing tall. Tony can almost hear a drum roll. ‘‘We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.’’There’s so much confidence and pride in his voice that Tony almost feels sorry for what he’s about to say.‘‘Never heard of you.’’Out of the five Guardians, Quill is the only one who looks disappointed, like he was expecting to be received with confetti and a red carpet.‘‘Told you,’’ Gamora says and Rocket snickers showing his sharp teeth.





	1. Chapter 1

_Clank clank._  
  
‘‘Maybe…’’  
  
_Clank clank._  
  
‘‘Maybe I should make him that cup-holder, after all...’’  
  
_Clank._  
  
Finally, Tony leaves the wrench on the workbench, letting out a deep sigh and resting his head on his arms. He hasn’t even been tinkering, just tapping the tool on the table to the sound of the music.  
  
‘‘Boss,’’ F.R.I.D.A.Y. calls out over the music after turning it down to make herself heard.  
  
‘‘What?’’ His tone isn’t brusque or unkind, just disinterested. He is feeling kinda numb, if he’s being honest.  
  
‘‘I would advise for you to take a nap since you have been refusing to sleep for the past fifty-eight hours.’’  
  
Tony just hums nonchalantly, observing Dum-E who is wandering the lab.  
  
‘‘Are you trying to tell me something, darling? Hm?’’  
  
‘‘I just did, boss.’’  
  
Tony snorts, closing his eyes and burying his face in his arms. He knows F.R.I.D.A.Y. is right but even though he has spent more than two days holed up in his lab, he hasn’t achieved one single thing. And he needs to create _something._  
  
In the last eleven months, Tony has already upgraded Rhodey’s leg braces (maybe three times or five but who is keeping track anyway); made upgrades to his own suits (for now the best one is the new repulsor that the armor will form around its own feet repulsors) and Rhodey’s; created three different types of arrows (which had been stupid. He doesn’t know shit about archery, what does he need the arrows for?) and two bows (just as stupid); five different electroshock weapons (really, he doesn’t need this stuff), neither one of them resembling weapons (one of them looks like a _book_ ); one Mjölnir, which consists only of a hammer that resembles Thor’s, weights a lot, and makes sounds that resemble the ones the real Mjölnir creates when wielded (ok, maybe he misses their God of Thunder a little bit and had to make a realistic toy of his favorite weapon); and one pair of (very comfy) stretchy pants.  
  
All this has been done in the span of six months, more or less, and Tony is pretty sure he’s done more stuff but can’t remember all of it. After the stretchy pants, he had just… gone blank, for a lack of better words. He hadn’t really known what to do with himself except wander the empty mansion. Well, by that time he had been dealing with the fallout of the Sokovia Accords, with the government, the UN… Still is, actually. Things aren’t easy but he wasn’t expected rainbows and unicorns, not when he had to work with a bunch of assholes so the Avengers (is it okay to still call them that? Well, actually, who the fuck cares. They can keep the name, Tony doesn’t—can’t care when he has more important things to be concerned about) can come back, or at least stop being called ‘‘war criminals.’’ And when he says ‘‘assholes’’ he’s referring to the _Avengers_ , too. They have been making things as difficult as all the other people involved in pardoning them. And by ‘‘they’’ he obviously means Steve.  
  
‘‘Stubborn asshole,’’ Tony grumbles under his breath, his face still resting on his arms.  
  
Well, maybe Barton has been as annoying as Steve with his assholery. But who cares? Not Tony, that’s for sure. Why would he care about them? It’s not like they are still his family. God, Tony feels like he’s gone through a divorce and Steve has gotten the custody of all the children. He still has Vision, even though he won’t stop brooding, not caring about using doors anymore or his own two feet, just levitating and phasing through the walls, scaring the living shit out of Tony every time. And it’s still a shock to hear J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice coming out of someone’s mouth and knowing it’s not him. Yeah, he’s not over it, and how pathetic is that?  
  
But better not to go down that road.  
  
The thing is that Tony’s been holed in his lab for—  
  
‘‘Fry, how long have I been down here?’’ he asks, turning his head to one side to make his words clear.  
  
‘‘Sixty hours and eleven minutes.’’  
  
Tony notices that he can’t hear any music coming out of the speakers and neither can he remember telling F.R.I.D.A.Y. to stop it.  
  
‘‘Hum. That’s a lot.’’  
  
‘‘Indeed. Would you like me to dim the lights so you can take a nap?’’  
  
_Sneaky girl_ , he thinks with a fond smile.  
  
‘‘Nice try, hon, but I won’t be able to sleep, which you already know.’’  
  
He gets up and stretched his arms, raising them over his head and standing on his toes. He sits back down when his back pops.  
  
‘‘Would you consider eating something?’’ There is an edge to her voice.  
  
‘‘I had a sandwich—’’  
  
‘‘Sixty-three hours ago,’’ F.R.I.D.A.Y. interjects.  
  
‘‘—and Dum-E’s bringing me a smoothie! Gosh, Fry, let me finish first. Okay, maybe he’s not... Dum-E. Dum-E, here.’’ Tony signals the bot to come but Dum-E just ends up bumping into a table and whirling in the opposite direction, letting out a high beep.  
  
The bot continues to move aimlessly in the quietness of the lab, Tony tracking his movements and feeling the heaviness of F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s silence.  
  
_She’s worse than Pepper._  
  
‘‘Dum-E, who are you trying to give the toxic smoothie to?’’ Another beep as the bot knocks down a chair or two on his way to the elevator. ‘‘Where are you trying to go, you failed toaster?’’  
  
Dum-E just touches the elevator’s doors with the smoothie in his claw.  
  
‘‘You want to go for a walk?’’ Tony asks, baffled. Dum-E lets out a series of high beeps, which to Tony’s ears sound frustrated. ‘‘No? Is the smoothie for… Vision, perhaps?’’ It wouldn’t be far-fetched seeing as the bots have kind of accepted him as one of their own.  
  
Another series of beeps and blips.  
  
Oh.  
  
‘‘Is that for Butterfingers and U?’’  
  
Dum-E raises his claw, almost emptying the whole glass on the floor, and turns on the spot.  
  
‘‘Sorry, Dum-E, I forgot to bring them back here.’’ He can’t even remember why he’d taken them out of the lab. ‘‘Fry, would you be a doll and tell them to come back here?’’  
  
‘‘On it.’’  
  
‘‘Thanks.’’  
  
Dum-E chirps and whirrs with enthusiasm, racing to Tony’s side and bumping his claw against his chest, pouring the entire smoothie on his front. Tony opens his mouth, ready to lecture the bot but then he just lets out a long breath.  
  
God. He _is_ tired.  
  
He walks the few steps to the couch and, after taking off his short-sleeved shirt and leaving the long-sleeved underneath it on, he just lets himself fall on the cushions.  
  
‘‘You win, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,’’ he mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow.  
  
F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t say anything in response just dimes the lights, turning them off after a couple of minutes, Tony already snoring lightly.

 

 

He is so done with this part. Can’t it just end already? Okay, we have the punching, the _metal arm_ punching, the kicking, the repulsor blasts, the shield… He’s watched this scene unfold in his dreams a hundred times by now, and it’s making him furious to not be able to change it or at least skip it, to wake up.  
  
Even if he knows it from beginning to end, even if he is beyond furious for being stuck here once again, Tony has to relive it anew, observe the fight and feel just as scared, frustrated, and defeated as then, because this is not going to end well for either one of them.  
  
Well, there is a new addition to the collection, though: guilt.  
  
He has watched the fight unfold not only in his dreams but he’s gotten his hands on the videotapes. He is a genius all right but he doesn’t always have to act like one. So he’s watched the tapes once, and again, and again…  
  
It isn’t that he is dwelling on the fight, per se. Maybe it is insensible to say that he doesn’t really regret doing what he did—he’d just seen his parents being brutally murdered and the person who’d done that was right there. Not only that, but Steve had known and—  
  
He knows the way he’d reacted wasn’t the most suitable when you don’t want things to go to shit but he had been just so… There aren’t even words. He can’t say that he had been fueled by rage or some sense of vengeance. That would be a huge understatement, just like saying he had felt betrayed when he had seen the lie in Steve’s eyes, when Steve himself had confessed it. _But_. But after almost a year he still feels like it was a reasonable reaction, so that isn’t what he’s been dwelling on for the past eleven months.  
  
What is on his mind, what he hadn’t seen while he was occupied trying to maim and/or incapacitate (he hadn’t been trying to kill anyone. Had he?), is what invades his dreams, what is so easy to see in the grainy recordings.  
  
Fear and pure survival instincts, something so different from what he’s seen on the recordings of the Winter Soldier (yes, he’d fished out those ones from the net, too, and many others) that it makes it difficult for Tony to keep thinking about Barnes as H.Y.D.R.A.’s asset.  
  
That memory along with the recordings and all the ruminating he’s done on his own, still baffle him and bring a caustic taste to the back of his throat. Because he hadn’t been attacking the Winter Soldier—he had attacked a prisoner of war who’d been shoved into their shit-show and then followed Steve’s reckless ass.  
  
So, yes, he’s had a lot of time to think, and that isn’t even the half of it.  
  
Oh, and there it is, his favorite part, the moment he’d thought he was going to be decapitated with the shield his own father had created. He had been so sure at the moment… So sure that Rogers was going to smash the shield on his trachea or face. He’d never seen him fight so fiercely, so blindly. After Tony had blown Barnes’ metal arm off, Rogers had stopped being Captain America, had stopped being Captain Rogers. He had turned into someone Tony had never met before. Maybe he had fought Steve Rogers, the guy from the '40s, Bucky Barnes’ best friend.  
  
Whoever that had been, Tony’s mind can’t stop bringing him back to that cold floor in Siberia, hands raised to stop a death blow that never came.  
  
In some dreams it does.  
  
In this particular nightmare, Steve doesn’t hit the arc reactor; he just thinks it best to finish Tony off.  
  
After waking up shaking, his heart beating against his ribcage like it’s trying to bruise itself black, Tony isn’t sure what end would have been better.  
  
He rights himself on the couch with shaky hands—left one already numb and stiff—, breath ragged, mind far away.  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., lights on.’’  
  
He can hear the reproach in her silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time publishing a fic and only the second I’ve ever written (not that I’ve ever finished anything in my life but well) (I have almost 40.000 words of a Wolfstar fic if anyone’s interested *wink wink*), so be gentle.  
>   
> I wanted to finish it before publishing it here ‘cause I know what a pain in the ass is reading a WIP (I almost never do) but some people wanted to read it already and I myself need someone cheering me up and telling me to write. (I actually lost track of some of the ppl on Instagram who asked me to notify them when I publish the fic so I’m really sorry but the acc and with it the post where we talked was deleted so…)  
>   
> I’m sure almost everyone’s familiar with that post on Tumblr about Mantis touching Tony and feeling what he feels and then just bawling her eyes out or something along those lines. That was the inspiration but it escalated and right now I have almost 12.000 words of unfinished fic and they haven’t even met yet. I don’t like rushing when I write and I’m a Bulgarian, living in Spain, writing in English and wanting to learn Russian so life is hard and confusing and I'm double-checking everything I type (I just checked if 'double-check' is written with a '-' in between so you can imagine.)  
>   
> I’ve always been afraid of constructive criticism (or any criticism at all) because I’m fragile and a perfectionist when I write but I know I need it so imma get my shit together.  
>   
> tl;dr: This is more like a sample of the story and I'll keep updating if someone likes it and says they want me to post more so PLEASE I need comments and kudos or I'll wither and die and the same goes with the story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist and had to share another chapter with you guys. Enjoy!  
> 

‘‘—over the compound.’’  
  
Tony blinks his eyes lazily, taking in his surroundings. Of course, the lab. It looks like he’s fallen asleep (or maybe F.R.I.D.A.Y. has filtered some sleeping gas through the vents—he won’t count that one out) on the hologram table. He shakes his head trying to understand what F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s trying to tell him.  
  
Silence, then he says, ‘‘Can you repeat that, Fry?’’  
  
‘‘The security systems have caught on camera an unidentified flying object—’’  
  
‘‘An UFO,’’ Tony’s groggy mind supplies.  
  
‘‘—and proceeded to shoot it out of the sky. It’s not showing on the radar and it didn’t look like any manmade technology, boss.’’  
  
His spine straightens up on its own accord, his mind clear and alert. He knew this was going to happen sooner or later. Ever since Loki and the Chitauri, Tony has known this was coming. That’s what Ultron had been going to protect the Earth from but they don’t have Ultron, not even the Avengers—not right now at least, maybe in a week or so. For now, it’s only Tony and Vision.  
  
‘‘Fry, alert Vision. Do you know where it landed?’’  
  
Tony’s already heading for the elevator, the Iron Man suit assembling itself around him. The doors close. Tony takes a deep breath, faceplate not yet covering his face. The suit has its own exit out of the lab but Tony needs a moment to gather himself. There is no Captain America, no Widow, no Wanda... Tony isn’t delusional, he knows that he only needs to take the flip-phone out of his pocket and make one call and all the former Avengers will be on their way; but they’re still considered fugitives and Tony isn’t going to let everything he’s achieved in the last months just fall apart like a house of cards. He will deal with this.  
  
He gets out of the elevator, Vision waiting for him just outside the doors.  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y. sent me the coordinates of where the spaceship has landed; one of the forest’s surveillance cameras is transmitting a live feed of the aircraft,’’ Vision informs him, already getting out of the compound and floating toward the trees.  
  
‘‘Yeah? What can you tell me?’’ Tony asks, faceplate in place.  
  
‘‘It is difficult to penetrate—’’  
  
‘‘Please, don’t use that word again.’’  
  
‘‘—their shields,’’ Vision continues without acknowledging Tony’s words, ‘‘but F.R.I.D.A.Y. has detected life forms inside the vessel.’’  
  
‘‘How many?’’  
  
Tony speeds up, feeling his heart thud against his ribcage. God, it feels like the arc reactor’s still embedded in his chest. There is pressure behind his eyes, the beginning of a migraine.  
  
‘‘As I said, their force fields are strong but F.R.I.D.A.Y. has located at least three living beings. Humanoid forms,’’ Vision adds as an afterthought.  
  
Tony doesn’t say anything, his eyes scanning every tree and stone when they approach the destruction created by the crash—they're lucky it’s not dark yet. They land less than 65 feet away from the alien spaceship. Because that’s what it is.  
  
‘‘Gorgeous,’’ Tony breathes out. He feels Vision’s gaze on him. ‘‘Sorry, it slipped out. Okay. Alien spaceship. Earth in danger, prob—’’  
  
‘‘We don’t know that for sure,’’ Vision cuts his rambling off, something Tony’s grateful for.  
  
Tony nods his head, not really feeling hopeful even though Vision has a point. It’s only one spaceship ( _Alien spaceship!_ Tony’s brain is practically buzzing inside his skull) and not a really big one, _and_ nothing else indicates this is another invasion.  
  
They circle the ship, examining what they can see from the distance. The HUD isn’t showing anything useful, having difficulties detecting heat or anything of importance from the inside of the ship. The most useful thing the HUD’s showing is that the metal isn’t from Earth, not even Vibranium.  
  
Just when they have started approaching the aircraft, what Tony assumes is the ramp of the ship (it _is_ a spaceship, a cool one but it still bears a resemblance to a quinjet) makes a sucking noise and starts opening up. Tony and Vision both adopt defensive positions but then he thinks better and lifts his gauntlets already charged up. They keep a careful eye on the ramp which seems to be having some problem opening itself. He hadn’t been paying attention at the beginning but now he notices that the spaceship isn’t in really good shape.  
  
After two whole and never-ending minutes, Tony hears something resembling voices coming from behind the ramp that hasn’t opened fully yet. Now that he thinks about it, had he ever heard any of the Chitauri speak during the battle of New York? Maybe they aren’t Chitauri but it doesn’t mean they are friendly.  
  
_Come on, you ugly bastards._  
  
Now, they are only 10 feet away from the ship.  
  
_You don’t stand a chance_ , Tony thinks, his hands trembling inside the gauntlets.  
  
‘‘—don’t know!’’ comes out of the ship. It’s a male voice and _speaking English_.  
  
Tony takes another step toward the voices because now he can hear a different one, speaking loudly but not enough to be heard from where he and Vision are standing.  
  
There’s a grunt of effort and, ‘‘Well they certainly didn’t have this kind of technology last time I was here!’’ The same male voice.  
  
Last time? Could it be the Chitauri after all? Have they learned to speak English? God, this is starting to be ridiculous. If that… being hasn’t lowered the ramp in the next five minutes Tony’s going to do it himself.  
  
‘‘Isn’t anyone going to help me here? You two have super-strength!’’  
  
More voices follow but Tony doesn’t recognize what’s said—maybe they’re further away from the ramp. Or it’s probably the spaceships’ force fields since it looks like Vision isn’t able to pick out what’s being said by the other crew members, either.  
  
_Okay, two individuals with super-strength. That’s not new_ , Tony thinks, a shiver running down his spine.  
  
There’s a high pitched sound that Tony isn’t sure it’s made by a living being or the ramp’s opening mechanism but said ramp finally opens up—or rather falls to the ground with a loud thud—lifting dirt and dust, making it impossible for Tony to see anything. Before he can take one step forward, fearing the newcomers are going to escape, Vision positions himself in front of Tony.  
  
‘‘Thanks, Viz,’’ Tony says, grateful for the face plate because his face is sporting a silly smile. ‘‘But there’s no need for—’’  
  
Tony’s cut off by a booming sound which resembles… laughter?  
  
Tony and Vision exchange baffled looks—actually, Vision looks curious more than anything else. Even so, Tony remains on the same spot, scanning for whatever is waiting for them beyond all the dust. Multiple humanoid forms, indeed. Four at least and… is that a dog? A midget? A child?  
  
He glances at Vision again, who looks as confused as Tony’s feeling. He’s probably seeing the same thing Tony’s HUD is transmitting.  
  
‘‘Some small alien form?’’ Tony offers, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, even though he’s far from feeling unconcerned. It seems like Vision knows that and isn’t going to let Tony think he has him fooled.  
  
‘‘I will go take a look,’’ Vision states.  
  
Tony’s armored arm shoots up from his side, encircling Vision’s wrist. The android takes a look at his caged wrist and then lifts his gaze to Tony, a questioning expression on his features. He doesn’t look angry, not even annoyed—both reactions Tony would have expected—only intrigued. Tony forces his arm to lose contact with Vision and return to his own side. It’s harder than it sounds and Tony almost has to talk himself out of grabbing Vision’s shoulders and… Doing what? Dragging him to the compound and just forget about the alien spaceship that’s crashed in their backyard?  
  
_Grow up_ , Tony tells himself.  
  
‘‘Sorry, Viz, just…’’  
  
_I’m just an idiot._  
  
‘‘Don’t worry, Anthony—’’  
  
‘‘Stop laughing!’’ interrupts the male voice one more time. _God, these people don’t have any manners._ ‘‘What the hell is wrong with you guys, I could have broken something!’’  
  
‘‘Did you all see that?!’’ That voice sounds like the one that created the thunderous laugh.  
  
_So all of them speak English and they don’t really sound threatening._  
  
Tony wishes it was that easy.  
  
The dust is settling down, letting Tony discern silhouettes. He and Vision resume their approach when on the HUD pops an alert of _something_ near him but it’s too late and suddenly Tony feels a slight pressure on his armored shoulders. Well, it’s not so much that he feels it as he sees it on the HUD, too.  
  
‘‘Um.’’  
  
‘‘Don’t move, Red, unless you want all your circuits on the outside,’’ warns the thing on his shoulders which Tony hasn’t seen yet but thinks must be small, and male judging by the voice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue the Guardians

There’s utter silence in the forest, no more laughter or shouting from the other party. He could just turn and finally see them but he’s more preoccupied with the weapon against his trachea—he can’t know if the suit’s stronger than the alien weapon.  
  
‘‘Vision, what’s threatening me?’’ He sounds casual even to his own ears.  
  
‘‘I’m not sure,’’ Vision starts saying from his left. ‘‘I think it’s a raccoon, Anthony.’’ And thank god he sounds as confused as Tony’s feeling because that means Vision isn’t fucking with him.  
  
_Okay. I’ve been beaten by a talking raccoon._  
  
Unexpectedly, there’s another burst of laughter, this time more than one voice. Tony can’t stand it anymore and turns so he can finally face the others. Fuck it, if that thing wants to slit his throat then be it but he can’t keep the appearances, act like he isn’t scared shitless.  
  
‘‘Okay.’’ Tony blinks, asking himself if perhaps the HUD is broken or F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s playing a joke on him because… ‘‘I was expecting tentacles or maybe, I don’t know… Roswell Greys.’’  
  
In front and closest to him, there’s a woman, a _green_ woman with long multicolored hair clad in leather and a sword in each hand, in position and ready to attack at the drop of a hat. Near her is a man, his upper body exposed (which doesn’t seem really smart but, after all, maybe the guy’s skin is more difficult to pierce), grey skin with red markings all over his torso, arms and face. He’s armed with blades and built like a brick shithouse. (Tony is honest enough to recognize in the privacy of his mind that he’s not _completely_ unworried.) Then there’s a… guy. A guy that looks totally normal, just standing with the aliens and…  
  
‘‘What in the hell is that?’’ Tony can’t refrain from asking because right in front of him, just some feet away, there’s an honest to god tree _with eyes_. And legs. And arms.  
  
The thing isn’t more than two feet tall, brown and with eyes that gaze into your soul—at least that’s how Tony feels after being stared at for at least ten whole seconds. He notices that the _tree_ is hiding behind the others.  
  
‘‘Oh God,’’ exclaims the man that Tony thinks is probably human. His eyes are comically wide, his lips forming a perfect ‘o’ shape. His gaze travels from Iron Man to Vision. ‘‘It’s happened: the robots have taken over!’’  
  
Both groups remain silent, all eyes fixed on the guy with dirty blonde hair. And then the huge guy starts cackling again, startling Tony and making him give a step back. He hears the armor on his shoulder being pierced with something metallic, accompanied by a grunt of effort. He’s expecting to feel pain but it doesn’t come. The creature isn’t on his shoulders anymore. He turns on the spot, still stunned and disorientated because _what is going on!_  
  
Vision is holding the—  
  
‘‘Viz, that’s a raccoon,’’ Tony voices, still feeling out of his depth not only because he’s dealing with a talking raccoon and a tree that’s walking and probably talking too but because there are aliens _again_ and they’re not so friendly after all, seeing as one of them just tried to stab him.  
  
He shakes himself and focuses on the raccoon who’s still trying to decapitated Vision, his blade phasing through the android. Vision is observing the alien (Tony’s determined not to call him a raccoon) with interest, not paying much attention to the thing’s fit of rage. Tony can see other objects on him—probably different weapons—and when the alien tries to reach for one of them, Vision catches his… front paws and holds him above the ground.  
  
‘‘Put him down,’’ the green woman commands, a warning in her tone. She hasn’t moved a muscle but he’s sure she could reach him in a fraction of a second. Her weapons can probably pierce the Iron Man suit, too, and with less effort.  
  
Vision sends Tony an enquiring look.  
  
‘‘Only if he behaves,’’ Tony says, the robot voice concealing the unsteadiness that’s still in his real voice. He clears his throat and tries to relax his shoulders a little bit, going for faux indifference with his posture.  
  
That’s the moment F.R.I.D.A.Y. chooses to make an appearance, ‘‘Boss, you have an incoming call from King T’Challa.’’  
  
Tony mutes the suit’s outside speakers so only F.R.I.D.A.Y. can hear him, and answers with a strained voice, ‘‘Tell him I’m busy right now.’’  
  
After a short pause she adds, ‘‘King T’Challa insist it's of pressing importance.’’  
  
‘‘And you tell him that the sudden arrival of aliens in my own backyard is of pressing importance as well,’’ he barks out, his eyes still glued to the people in front of him.  
  
Before he can tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. _not_ to tell him that, that he wasn’t thinking, F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, ‘‘King T’Challa cut the connection, boss.’’ And that’s odd. Maybe he thinks Tony was trying to screw with him. He only hopes it doesn’t worsen the King’s opinion of him—Tony enjoys T’Challa’s company and has him in high esteem.  
  
‘‘I’ll have to send him a fruit basket as an apology,’’ he muses, F.R.I.D.A.Y. being the only one able to hear him. ‘‘Make a reminder, Fry.’’  
  
‘‘Noted.’’  
  
The woman gives a pointed look at the alien and he stops trying to claw Vision’s eyes out. Both Vision and Tony can see that he’s still ready to attack them at any moment. The android places him on the ground and the _alien_ returns to his group without breaking eye contact, glaring and baring his teeth at them.  
  
When Tony lifts his gaze again, the blonde man has a weapon in each hand. At least Tony thinks that’s what they are—they bear some resemblance to guns. He’s pointing them at Tony and Vision but doesn’t give any hostile vibes; actually, the only ones who seem hostile are the furry alien and the green alien.  
  
It’s been a long time since Tony’s found himself in a situation like this. No, scratch that, he’s never found himself in a situation _like this one_ but the last time he confronted an enemy _was_ a long time ago. A long time even if he counts Siberia.  
  
He’s analyzing the situation in his head when he notices he’s raised his own gauntlets and Vision is hovering over the ground, ready to attack at Tony’s signal. And then he remembers Leipzig and all the destruction they created at the airport, remembers thinking that if he could just talk Steve out of it, if he could only reach to him there wouldn’t be any need to fight them.  
  
These people aren’t his family or his friends, hell, they aren’t even from this planet, but maybe they can talk this out. Tony hasn’t even asked them what they’re doing here. He still doesn’t feel hopeful but the tense and threatening atmosphere is driving him crazy.  
  
‘‘So who are you, guys?’’ And there is the patented Tony Stark tone, the I-have-everything-under-control-and-this-is-boring-me.  
  
He’s a defender of Earth so he can’t afford the luxury of showing fear or hesitance in front of these people.  
  
_Defenders of Earth_ , Tony muses. _Maybe that could be our next name._  
  
The strangers don’t seem willing to answer. All five of them—even the tree—are grim-faced, eyes zeroed in on them.  
  
_These guys are intense._  
  
Tony lowers his gauntlets and can practically feel the weight of Vision’s confused and disapproving stare.  
  
‘‘Anthony—’’ he starts but Tony doesn’t let him finish and only shakes his head.  
  
Even if he’s not about to start shooting, Tony still has his eyes and sensors trained on them, ready to defend himself or Vision at any moment.  
  
‘‘We’re not robots.’’ Tony feels like that’s a good place to start.  
  
‘‘That’s what a robot would say,’’ the blonde man shoots back.  
  
He considers the guy—he looks so sure of what he’s just said. Tony contemplates the possibility that the guy is trying to use some tactic to make himself look less threatening but immediately brushes it off.  
  
‘‘Why would a robot say that?’’ Tony asks puzzled.  
  
The man doesn’t answer right away but gives himself a moment to think. He scrunches his face up. His crew is looking at him, too.  
  
‘‘Don’t hurt yourself, pretty boy,’’ Tony says with a snort.  
  
The comment catches the blonde by surprise making his frown deepen. He gives Tony and Vision a once-over and then his expression changes like he’s reached a decision. Still with his weapons raised he says, ‘‘So how can we know that you’re not one of the robots that have taken over the world?’’  
  
Tony rolls his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh. Definitely not a tactic to make himself look less bright. He catches the green woman having the same reaction; so this is something frequent. Without giving it too much thought, only wishing for this absurdity to reach an end, Tony makes the helmet retract in the armor. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Vision shift, probably not pleased with his choice of actions. He’s pretty sure Vision could take care of the group, what with the phasing and the Mind Stone, but Tony knows he won’t do anything until he himself gives the word. Well, unless the others decide to forget about diplomacy and just attack them.  
  
The blonde’s gaze inspects Tony’s face and then travels down the armor, making him feel uncomfortable and exposed. There aren’t a lot of people on this planet that don’t know Tony Stark or at least Iron Man, which feels weird.  
  
‘‘See?’’ Tony gestures at his suit with non-threatening motions of his hands. ‘‘It’s only a suit, okay?’’ Tony feels something twist in his chest. Only _a suit, yeah right._ ‘‘And Earth hasn’t been taken over by robots,’’ he finds it important to add.  
  
Blondie’s still eying the armor but there are no traces of the frown. Actually, there’s a totally different expression on his face: one of curiosity.  
  
‘‘Wow. Technology has advanced a lot since the eighties.’’ Blondie finally holsters his weapons.  
  
‘‘Peter, what are you doing?’’ the green woman hisses, clearly irritated, directing such an intense glare at him that Tony himself feels the hairs on his nape stand on end.  
  
‘‘They’re not robots, Gamora. The Earth hasn’t been taken over!’’ the guy named Peter replies. There is actual relief in his voice.  
  
_Is this guy for real?_  
  
‘‘Who cares what they are!’’ This time is the al—screw it—the raccoon who interjects, breaking off the staring contest between Peter and Gamora. ‘‘This guy shot our ship out of the sky!’’  
  
‘‘It wasn’t me, per se,’’ Tony brushes it off with an unconcerned tone.  
  
Actually, the raccoon doesn’t look that threatening, after all. Tony _knows_ he can be dangerous but the guy is small and puts so much energy into everything he’s doing that Tony has to fight off an amused smile. The Peter guy looks even friendly and the woman… is still scary as hell. Tony doesn’t understand how Blondie is capable of acting so carefree when she’s giving him _that_ look.  
  
‘‘Your aircraft showed on the cameras of the security systems but not on its radars,’’ Vision is the one to start explaining.  
  
‘‘Yeah, and we have a bad history with alien spaceships, so…’’ Tony chimes in before Vision can continue. ‘‘That’s why F.R.I.D.A.Y. thought it better to, uh, to not take any risks and shoot you out of the sky while you were here, so that way _we_ could deal with a possible alien invasion. Another one, that is.’’ Tony opens his arms in a ‘‘that’s all’’ gesture.  
  
Peter looks at his companions one by one and when not even one of them put away their weapons he just huffs, raising his arms in exasperation.  
  
‘‘Come on, guys, they could have attacked us a long time ago and they haven’t! The red-faced guy could’ve probably just phased his hand through Rocket’s insides and—’’  
  
‘‘Why the hell would you even say something like that?!’’ the rac—Rocket screeches with disbelief and indignation.  
  
‘‘Is not like I’m telling them to do it!’’ Peter shoots back.  
  
‘‘No, you moron, but you’re giving them ideas!’’  
  
Now they’re facing each other, not giving a damn about Tony and Vision—even the big guy has given up and is putting the blades in his boots. Tony is trying but is finding it difficult to read the guy’s expression. He isn’t menacing—even with his size, muscles, and weapons—, amused, worried… He’s just observing the other two like he’s some football referee, which is weird since he’s the same guy who wouldn’t stop laughing just a few minutes ago.  
  
Tony shifts his eyes to the green woman, Gamora, who looks just about to explode with anger and probably sever all their heads and keep them as a souvenir from when she visited Earth. Which reminds him…  
  
‘‘Hey, guys,’’ Tony interjects, the other two still discussing something with terms that are… alien to him. _God, what I wouldn’t give for that nap now._  
  
‘‘How many times do I have to tell you not to call me ‘trash panda’?!’’  
  
‘‘It slipped, okay?’’ Peter raises his voice over Rocket’s, and Tony’s head is about to explode, the migraine having gained intensity during the past fifteen minutes. He places the cold gauntlet over his forehead and opens his mouth to make himself heard over the argument. Which is unnecessary because Gamora decides to simply raise one of her swords and just slash the air between Peter and Rocket, leaving everyone dumbstruck, eyes and mouths wide open in shock.  
  
‘‘We’re not here to attack and/or conquer your planet—we’re here as tourists. Peter is a Terran but hasn’t had a chance to come back until now. He wanted to visit and show us around.’’  
  
They stay in silence as the sun goes down, the last sunbeams catching on Gamora’s swords.  
  
‘‘Am I the only one _slightly_ aroused?’’ Peter breaks the silence, his eyes traveling from one individual to another. ‘‘Just a little bit.’’  
  
‘‘You’re disgusting,’’ Gamora says, her swords retracting in themselves.  
  
That _is arousing_ , Tony thinks to himself and immediately regrets the thought.  
  
‘‘I am Vision,’’ the android supplies, extending a hand toward Gamora who he’s probably already accepted as the only reasonable person worth speaking to. She's probably the captain of the ship, so.  
  
She stares him down but ends shaking his hand, the grip visibly firm. ‘‘Gamora.’’ Then she looks at Tony with a raised eyebrow—well, where her eyebrow would be if she had any. He’s so grateful that she’s accomplished some silence he’s just about ready to do anything for her. He obviously doesn’t reveal as much.  
  
‘‘Tony Stark.’’ His right gauntlet retracts in the armor and they shake hands. Yep, bone-crushing grip.  
  
‘‘Peter Quill,’’ he introduces himself with a mild smile, shaking hands.  
  
‘‘I am Drax the Destroyer,’’ he says in a gruff voice, a tight grip.  
  
‘‘That doesn’t sound ominous at all…’’ Tony mutters. Drax just frowns and looks him directly in the eye, unblinking. Tony decides to let it go and be content with getting his hand back, all the bones miraculously intact.  
  
‘‘Rocket,’’ he grumbles, his arms crossed and not looking at them.  
  
The tree, on the other hand, trots to Tony and Vision and says with a funny voice, childlike but gravely at the same time, ‘‘I am Groot.’’ He sounds so earnest Tony has to use every ounce of self-restraint not to grin or pick it—him?—up.  
  
‘‘Hi, I’m Tony.’’ Even though he’s already introduced himself he can’t stop from doing it again, not when Groot extends his hands and grips the one Tony just offered himself. Groot shakes Tony’s fingers and then Vision’s, who observes the little tree with curiosity.  
  
‘‘Interesting,’’ Vision says under his breath as if he isn’t addressing anyone in particular. Tony waits for him to elaborate but Vision straightens up from his crouch and faces the others with Tony.  
  
‘‘You may know us,’’ says Quill with a smug smirk playing on his face and standing tall. Tony can almost hear a drum roll. ‘‘We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.’’  
  
There’s so much confidence and pride in his voice that Tony almost feels sorry for what he’s about to say.  
  
‘‘Never heard of you.’’  
  
Out of the five Guardians, Quill is the only one who looks disappointed, like he was expecting to be received with confetti and a red carpet.  
  
‘‘Told you,’’ Gamora says, and Rocket snickers showing his sharp teeth.  
  
Quill deflates with an exhale, almost pouting, and even though Tony isn’t sure if he can let himself believe their words, he doesn’t feel threatened by them.  
  
‘‘So… Sorry about your spaceship. Can you fix it?’’ Tony asks. He feels kinda guilty—it’s a beautiful spaceship.  
  
‘‘Nah, don’t worry, we can take care of her but it will take us some time,’’ Quill states but doesn’t sound worried at all, only waves him dismissively.  
  
_Her? God, what if it’s a sentient spaceship?!_ Tony brushes off the idea because he can't deal with something like that right now. Maybe never.  
  
Quill is eyeing the Iron Man suit again, a little furrow between his eyebrows. Tony’s guess is that Quill is probably thinking about all the new technology that’s been developed in the time he’s been in space.  
  
_A spaceman_ , Tony thinks with something between hysteria and exhilaration because since 2012 they’ve known that there _is_ extraterrestrial life but this guy is a human who’s been living among all these other species.  
  
‘‘We could accommodate them in the Avengers compound while they get their spacecraft repaired.’’ It isn’t exactly a question but Tony can hear in Vision’s polite tone that he’s the one taking the shots.  
  
‘‘If they’re okay with it I don’t see a problem,’’ Tony answers, feeling a strange tingle in his chest.  
  
It’s been a long time since the facility has accommodated more than two residents. It’s lonelier since Rhodey adapted to the leg braces and returned to the Air Force. Tony isn’t bitter even if he can sound like he is—it’s just that he misses his best friend, misses Pepper, misses Happy. Tony knows he’s the one with the radio silence, the one who’s holed himself in his lab and ignored them but, once again, he doesn’t always act like the genius he actually is.  
  
‘‘No way I’m sharing a bedroom with any one of these bozos,’’ Rocket states pointing with his thumb at the other Guardians.  
  
‘‘We share a spaceship,’’ Drax chimes in with his calm and deep voice.  
  
‘‘Yeah, we’re literally roommates,’’ Quill adds, looking down at him, puzzled.  
  
Rocket grumbles something under his breath but no one can make out what insult he’s used.  
  
‘‘I am Groot.’’  
  
‘‘Is he okay?’’ asks Tony, one eyebrow raised in confusion.  
  
Before anyone can give him an answer, Rocket picks Groot up and just walks off, probably toward the spaceship.  
  
‘‘Don’t mind him,’’ says Quill. ‘‘Rocket’s an asshole but deep down he’s cool. And maybe you two should know that the only thing Groot can say is ‘I am Groot’. He can understand us but the only one who understands him is Rocket and us,’’ he says pointing at him and the other two.  
  
‘‘Oh.’’ Tony means to say something else but his mind’s already spinning, trying to come with an explanation to how that is possible.  
  
‘‘He said: ‘I want my own room.’’’  
  
The remaining Guardians plus Tony look at Vision, nonplussed.  
  
‘‘You understand him?’’ Gamora is the first to regain her composure.  
  
‘‘Apparently, I do,’’ he replies and Tony’s pretty sure Vision doesn’t know why, either. All of them must reach the same conclusion because no one formulates the obvious question.  
  
‘‘Getting back on topic: I don’t have any complaints about that offer,’’ Quill supplies with an easy smile. He directs a look to his other two companions who respond each with a single nod.  
  
It’s already dark but Tony can still see the lingering mistrust in Gamora’s face.  
  
‘‘Follow me, then,’’ Tony instructs them and starts walking toward the compound. Now that there’s no adrenalin, Tony feels like his legs would give out if it wasn’t for the suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)  
> I'm curious: where are you guys from?


	4. Chapter 4

Quill takes his right side while Gamora decides to walk behind them. _Smart._ Tony notices that Drax is not following them, and since he’s not wearing the helmet he can’t see him in the darkness.  
  
‘‘Where did your friend go?’’ He hopes his tone hasn’t given away the uneasiness he’s feeling.  
  
‘‘Oh.’’ Quill takes a glimpse over his shoulder, looking for Drax, too. ‘‘I guess he’s going to bring Mantis—she got knocked out when we tried to land.’’  
  
‘‘Sorry again about that,’’ Tony says, feeling his face burn and his eyes prick—he feels really close to crying with shame. Jesus. He’d hurt one of their friends and Quill is still willing to sleep under his roof. And the others haven’t really hurt him—tried, yes, but haven’t carried it out. ‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., sweetie, say you’re sorry.’’  
  
Before Gamora or Quill can ask who is he talking to, F.R.I.D.A.Y. says through the speakers of the suit, ‘‘My sincere apologies, Gamora and Peter Quill. My only intention was to protect the Avengers Facility.’’  
  
Tony turns his face away from Quill so he can’t see his broad grin but at his left Vision is looking directly at him, his own face graced with a small and amused smile.  
  
‘‘Who is that?’’ Gamora demands. Her voice isn’t harsh nor hostile but it is filled with authority, certain that she’s getting her answer.  
  
‘‘That’s F.R.I.D.A.Y., my Artificial Intelligence. She’s the one who runs and monitors the facility.’’  
  
He can’t see Gamora’s face but he’s sure it has nothing to do with the pure delight he can see on Quill’s. It looks just like the expression kids get when they see the Iron Man armor.  
  
‘‘Hi, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,’’ Quill says, bringing his face closer to the armor. Tony snorts but leaves him be. ‘‘I’d prefer it if you call me Peter. Oh wait! Even better: Star-Lord!’’  
  
‘‘Noted, Star-Lord.’’  
  
Quill’s face brightens up even more and looks back at Gamora. Tony smiles and shakes his head.  
  
When they reach the compound, the doors automatically open to let them in the rec room which is directly connected with the kitchen—Tony just realizes he hasn’t set foot in the living area for a long time. The newcomers take in their surroundings, Gamora sizing up the area, and Quill not wasting any time and going up to the television, inspecting it and the other devices near it. Gamora is still keeping an eye on her companion even while inspecting the area. What is she looking for, Tony doesn’t know.  
  
After an entire five minutes of hesitation, Tony just thinks _‘‘screw it’’_ and commands the armor to open so he can get out—even so, the Iron Man suit stays in sentry mode since there’s still an alarm blaring in his mind. Gamora eyes him and the armor with skepticism but Quill stares at him with something resembling confusion.  
  
‘‘What?’’ Tony says. ‘‘You’re weirding me out.’’  
  
‘‘You’re…’’ Quill starts and doesn’t finish, though he’s gesturing with his hands. Tony lifts an unimpressed brow. ‘‘Smaller.’’  
  
‘‘Okay that’s it, you’re sleeping outside.’’  
  
Tony only needs a second to remember that these people don’t know him, his character, or his humor. If these were the Avengers right here they wouldn’t laugh but he knows Steve would roll his eyes with fondness, Nat would try and hide a smile, Clint would… Well, he would be the one being threatened with sleeping in the woods, something—now that Tony thinks about it—he isn’t sure Clint wouldn’t actually enjoy doing. The thing is that they can take it in the wrong way and Tony’s trying to be diplomatic and, who knows, maybe make some alien acquaintances that wouldn’t turn Earth down when they need some help in the future.  
  
Outside of Tony’s mind, only a couple of seconds have passed and then Quill snorts with a half-smile and Gamora says, ‘‘It would be for the best.’’  
  
Tony feels his muscles uncoil and discreetly exhales the air he’s apparently been holding. Just then, Drax appears with a woman dressed in green in his arms, and Vision in tow who must have gone after Drax at some point (Tony scolds himself for not being more alert.) The antennas aren’t the first thing he notices, but the gash with already dried blood on her forehead—Tony has to control his expression so his emotions aren’t obviously shown to everyone. It’s only a minor injury but Tony feels like he’s going to be sick if he doesn’t do something _right now._  
  
‘‘Viz, would you be so kind as to point them to their rooms? You can arrange it with F.R.I.D.A.Y.; I know you two are great pals and gossip.’’ He almost feels proud of his steady voice and how he hasn’t keeled over yet.  
  
Vision sends him a curious look—he’s familiar with how much Tony likes to show off his buildings. Even if he’s a three-year-old android, Vision is more perceptive than Tony gives him credit sometimes. They follow Vision, Quill throwing a _‘‘later’’_ over his shoulder and Gamora waves her hand goodbye.  
  
Tony wanders aimlessly until he opens a random door and finds himself in the broom closet, which is actually way bigger than any ordinary closet since Martha, the ‘‘housekeeper’’ (compound-keeper? She only takes care of the inhabited areas of the compound), and her three nephews needed more space and their own bathroom. Tony leans against the closed door, his breaths ragged and rattling almost painfully in his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to remember Martha’s nephew’s names—it’s just like counting your breaths or whatever other exercise to control an anxiety attack.  
  
_What annoying shit would Harley say?_  
  
‘‘Fry, alert me if one of them does the slightest thing that arises suspicion,’’ he orders between mouthfuls of air, his temples throbbing. He doesn’t hear F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s answer.  
  
The younger one is Jimmy… maybe. Alan? No, it starts with a J. He is the one saving money so he can pay his acting classes next year. A sweet kid. Doesn’t come that often; doesn’t talk that much.  
  
Tony is sitting on the floor now, face between trembling hands.  
  
Then there is the tall and bulky one—Devin?—who’s got two jobs and won’t stop flirting with Tony every time he brings his boyfriend along, which they found hilarious because Tony will splutter not understanding why a 22-year-old would say such things to him who is more than twice the kid’s age!  
  
Tony runs his fingers through his hair feeling the damp skin beneath them.  
  
And, and… Erin. Yeah, he is sure he has this one right. He is the oldest of the three. He’s the one getting his aerospace engineering degree online and will refuse Tony’s proposal of paying for his studies and would call him a _‘‘crazy son of a bitch’’_ at least once a week.  
  
He gets his Stark-Phone from out of his pocket and brings it to his ear, feeling lightheaded. ‘‘Karen, is Peter patrolling? How’s he doing? Fallen into a river or ditch already?’’  
  
‘‘Negative, Mr. Stark. Peter is currently not using the suit.’’  
  
‘‘Good. Good. Thanks, Karen.’’ Tony pockets his phone before she can say anything else, and feels slightly better, relieved.  
  
Tony thinks he’s got it under control when he hears voices outside. He shakes himself and stands off the floor. Takes a deep breath, his hand over the doorknob. Fuck, they’re still shaking. His _legs_ are shaking. He rubs his sore eyes and just thinks _‘‘screw it’’_ again, which could be the title of his next biography or his life motto.  
  
He walks the length of the hallway following the voices until he’s back in the living room. Quill is standing in front of the TV and Tony observes him with wariness. He’s reaching behind the TV with a hand, maybe trying to touch something, and then he crouches to examine the video game consoles. Tony’s silently edging closer, trying to decipher what the guy’s trying to do with his technology. Maybe study it and then report to his alien pals?  
  
‘‘Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,’’ Quill calls out, his voice reverberating in the lone room and making Tony jump. ‘‘You said this is a television, right?’’  
  
‘‘That’s right, Star-Lord.’’  
  
Quill hums, still engrossed. ‘‘It’s not like I haven’t seen a flat screen in my life—we have that in space—but this… This is different. I mean, it’s home and it’s got all this new and improved stuff.’’  
  
Tony shifts with embarrassment. God, this guy is _visiting_ his home planet wanting to show it to his friends and Tony is already treating them like criminals. No one can reproach him his mistrustful behavior, not with everything that’s happened in the last ten years, but Tony still feels like crap.  
  
Quill spots him and raises a hand as a way of greeting, smiling, and Tony decides then and there that obviously he won’t trust them blindly but he can at least give them the benefit of the doubt and a chance to prove that they are not here to cause trouble.  
  
‘‘Hope I’m not overstepping,’’ Quill apologizes but doesn’t sound that worried. ‘‘Just wanted to take a look at… these.’’ He’s pointing at the consoles, probably not knowing what they are.  
  
‘‘Are these video game consoles?’’  
  
Okay, maybe he does.  
  
‘‘Yeah, actually they are.’’ Tony makes his way to one of the couches, the one facing Quill, and sits on it, trying not to sink or melt on the cushions; he’s so tired.  
  
‘‘Could you show me?’’  
  
Tony just blinks at him. ‘‘Like… how to play a game?’’  
  
‘‘Yeah.’’  
  
And that’s how Tony Stark ends up playing video games with a spaceman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing first: thank you THANK YOU guys so much for all the kudos, hits, bookmarks, suscriptions, and comments; it literally warms my heart everytime I see them.  
>   
> Second: I’m sorry this is such a short chapter. The story isn’t originally divided in chapters so I have to figure out where’s the best moment to cut it when I publish it here.  
>   
> Third: The next chapter is probably what you’ve all been waiting for ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your lugnuts!

Something is wrong with the dream. There’s no concrete ceiling, for starters. He doesn’t feel that heaviness in his chest, the angle is all wrong, and where is the shield, where’s the cold? Even so, Tony raises his hands to cover his face, eyes wide open… Where are his gauntlets?! Where is the suit?!  
  
_God, what is happening?!_ , Tony thinks, only his ragged breaths audible to him, filling his mind.  
  
‘‘Tony?’’  
  
And then Tony finally notices the beard, the longer hair, the darker uniform… Barnes looks different, too: the metal arm is the first thing he spots but then there is the same jaded expression as Steve’s, the new uniform, the beard, the longer hair…  
  
‘‘You wanted to match?’’ Tony says in a strangled voice, finally dawning on him what’s really going on.  
  
And then he sees the others and his brain just whites out. He feels his muscles lock up; the breath is punched out of his lungs and it feels like his ribcage is squeezing them; he can feel tears welling up in his eyes but can’t close them. And he just… he just feels so small and unprepared, so vulnerable and unprotected, waiting for _something_ , for someone to do something.  
  
Barnes is the first to move, taking a step back and putting a hand on Steve’s arm when he doesn’t follow suit.  
  
‘‘Steve,’’ he says almost in a whisper. ‘‘Back off.’’  
  
That seems to get Steve out of his own daze. He takes a few steps back so suddenly that he crashes into Barnes who only raises another hand to Steve’s other shoulder and doesn’t even look surprised by his reaction. Steve looks shaken and like he’s taking in Tony’s own body language which is literally screaming ‘‘back off!’’  
  
‘‘You’re okay,’’ Sam says, the only other one who’s found his voice, apparently. He sounds like he doesn’t understand how that’s possible.  
  
Tony hears him but he seems unable to turn his gaze away from Steve. He’s not sure what he’s feeling, if it’s fear, shock, some kind of twisted solace…  
  
‘‘Hey, Stark, I was thinking about—Oh. Hi.’’  
  
That makes all of the suited people in Tony’s living room adopt a fighting stance, weapons or fists raised at the threat. And then something just _expands_ on Steve’s forearms and are those fucking shields?!  
  
‘‘What the…’’ exhales Clint, looking over the couch.  
  
Before anything worse can happen, Tony lets go of the cushions he’s apparently been clutching in a death grip and raises his voice, ‘‘Hey, put those things down!’’ No one pays him any attention, no one but Barnes who lowers his massive gun.  
  
Natasha, Sam, Clint, and Steve have their eyes trained on Quill who’s raised his alien weapons, too. Tony gets up and puts himself between the two groups since now Gamora has entered the kitchen area and is getting her badass swords out, stunning everyone into silence.  
  
‘‘Drax!’’ she hollers. ‘‘We need back up! I told you we couldn’t trust him so easily, Peter.’’ There’s no malice in her voice, it’s the tone of someone stating a fact. And that stings because Tony hasn’t betrayed their trust, it just happens that the universe hates him and makes everything ten times more difficult for him.  
  
‘‘Hey, hey no,’’ he tries to appease the fury he can see on Gamora’s face and the almost betrayed look on Quill’s. ‘‘No one’s betraying anyone, okay?’’  
  
But Drax and Rocket are already flanking them with their own weapons pointed at the other party. And Vision is phasing through a wall. What a circus. Tony raises his hands, making sure the Guardians can see he’s not armed and has no intention of attacking.  
  
‘‘Guys, all of this is—’’  
  
‘‘Hey, Mr. Stark, I was—’’  
  
And at that moment Tony loses it.  
  
‘‘This _cannot_ be happening! I have a heart condition, people, are you ganging up on me to put me in an early grave? And what in God’s name are _you_ doing here?!’’  
  
Tony feels like he’s about to burn out even if there’s a hysterical laugh building up inside of him because all of this is ridiculous! What are the Avengers doing here? And there are aliens in his living room, and… and Peter! God, this kid is going to kill him someday!  
  
‘‘Oh my God,’’ Peter squeaks, bug-eyed and arms above his head (letting his backpack hit the floor) like he’s one of those thieves he himself catches when he’s your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. ‘‘Oh my God, Captain America is here! Mr. Stark, did you finally make up?!’’ And that voice is just too high when the kid’s fanboying and it isn’t doing anything good for Tony’s headache.  
  
‘‘Captain America?’’ Tony has his eyes tightly shut because the light is suddenly too bright but either way he recognizes Quill’s bewildered voice. Tony already feels his brain being stabbed with needles but forces his eyes open. The two Peters have the same expressions and this couldn’t be going more awfully. ‘‘Gamora, that’s Captain America!’’ And now he’s pointing at him.  
  
Tony can’t believe his eyes but the guy is _actually_ holstering his weapons! It looks like no one can believe it either—judging by Gamora’s deadly glare—and the Avengers look lost because there are literal aliens in the compound and one of them knows Captain America (Tony knows Quill’s from Earth but taking into account that the other three are clearly from space he can understand the Avengers assuming he is, too.)  
  
‘‘Captain America? The guy from those comics you had as a kid?’’ Rocket is the one who asks.  
  
‘‘Yes! But they were based on a real man!’’ Quill shrills with delight, grinning. He’s just about to start jumping like a four-year-old, Tony can bet on it.  
  
He can’t believe this is what stopped a possible shoot-out between the Avengers and the Guardians of the Galaxy—and Jesus they all sound so pretentious and self-important, and who would have guessed it would be Tony Stark the one having this thought.  
  
‘‘Steve, you’re famous in space,’’ mutters Barnes, and it should be way out of place for him to direct that proud look at Steve.  
  
‘‘Earth hasn’t been taken over by robots but you’re cloning now?’’ Quill questions. The guy would’ve probably walked to Captain America and shaken his hand if it wasn’t for Drax’s own hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.  
  
‘‘He’s not a clone, kid,’’ Barnes answers, his face pinched with something akin to offense or maybe mild annoyance. ‘‘He’s the original Captain America.’’  
  
‘‘But he died—’’ Quill snaps his mouth shut. He blinks once, twice. Tony can almost hear wheels turning in his head. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Drax shakes him like a rag doll, a frown between his eyes. ‘‘You’re… you’re Sargent James Barnes. You’re Bucky Barnes.’’  
  
And that seems to surprise Barnes more than a green woman or a raccoon handling a gun. This whole situation is just surreal and Tony wants it to end and for him to go to bed, or hole up in his lab again, only his bots to bother him.  
  
‘‘Yeah, he is,’’ Steve answers, still deeply confused—probably because suddenly there’s no one to actually fight—but even so there’s a gentle smile curving almost imperceptibly his lips.  
  
‘‘But how is it possible?’’ asks Quill, awed.  
  
‘‘It’s a long story. Can now all of you put your guns and awesome swords down?’’ Tony cuts in before someone can start narrating the legendary story of Captain Spangled Ass and His Legendary Assassin Best Friend. And thank god some miracle makes them listen to him and do as he’s just said.  
  
Tony releases a shaky breath, stepping away from the Avengers and closer to Vision. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Tony knows he sounds accusatory but right now he can’t make himself care about it because he feels like someone who’s run ten miles only fueled by adrenaline. Or someone’s run _him_ over.  
  
He’s shaky on his legs so even at risk of coming out as uncaring and blithe about the present situation Tony lets himself fall on the cushions, carefully positioning himself on the couch that lets him see everyone. He forces his expression to appear disinterested and eyes the two groups (pointedly ignoring Vision’s concerned expression.) No one actually answers, Steve still frowning at him while the other two parties size each other up.  
  
‘‘Peter, lower your hands. Jesus.’’ The kid crosses his arms in front of his chest, changing his weight from one leg to another. There’s complete silence. ‘‘Kid, you have permission to sit down. Or go, which I would very much prefer.’’ A hurt look crosses Peter’s face and something cold clenches in Tony’s chest. He only barely stops himself from brushing the not there anymore arc reactor. ‘‘Because you realize you almost got involved in a skirmish, right? What have we talked about that?’’  
  
Peter raises his eyes from the floor, lips forming a tight line. ‘‘Um…’’  
  
‘‘The roof…’’ Tony gives him a hint, arching an eyebrow. If only everyone could just disappear and let him have a normal conversation with Peter. When was the last time he saw the kid? God, he looks taller.  
  
‘‘That if I’m nothing without the suit—’’ Peter starts saying unsure.  
  
‘‘No, no,’’ Tony interrupts him with a raised palm. ‘‘Not that part.’’  
  
While Peter tries to remember the conversation, Tony spots Rocket in the kitchen, dragging a stool and not giving a damn about the scraping noise it creates. At least now all eyes are on him and not on Peter and Tony.  
  
‘‘That it would be on you if—’’  
  
‘‘Yes, that part exactly!’’ Tony doesn’t enjoy interrupting the kid but he doesn’t need anyone knowing what the two of them have or haven’t talked about—he only wanted Peter to remember that his safety overrides everything else.  
  
He’s about to add something else when he sees Rocket along with Drax rummaging in the fridge. ‘‘Hey, hey. What are you? anima—? Okay, forget that.’’  
  
‘‘Oh, yeah. Sorry, Stark,’’ says Quill not sounding apologetic at all—Tony’s getting used to it. ‘‘I told them I was going to educate them on Terran food.’’  
  
Tony takes a deep, deep breath. Holds it. And exhales. Then repeats.  
  
‘‘Okay. Okay.’’ His voice is steady, which is a good sign. ‘‘First of all: Peter, go home.’’  
  
‘‘I can’t, aunt May drove me here.’’  
  
‘‘Then call May and tell her she has to pick you up,’’ Tony says with steel in his voice.  
  
Tony only needs to take one look at Peter’s expression to know that nothing good is going to come out of his mouth. ‘‘She’s already going to work.’’  
  
He’s about to open his mouth when Sam beats him to it, ‘‘Hey, you’re the bug boy!’’  
  
‘‘You’re recruiting them from the playground now, Stark?’’ Clint adds with a sneer but under that Tony can perceive his anger. The guy has kids so Tony gets it, he does and knows he deserves it.  
  
‘‘The kid from Queens?’’ Steve chimes in, too.  
  
‘‘No!’’ Tony is on his feet now, shaky legs and headache be damned. He strides across the room until he’s in front of Peter, feeling the need to shield him, hide him from the others. Steve is not taking Peter from him. ‘‘You don’t talk to him and—ah ah ah! You’re not allowed to speak with the war criminals, kid! You,’’ he points a finger at the Guardians, ‘‘do whatever you want, just don’t blow anything up or go wandering the city.’’  
  
The Guardians nod as if they’re a single organism and a second later attack everything they can put in their mouths. Quill’s gaze lingers on him like he’s about to say something but then shrugs and follows Gamora to the table, telling them what they’re eating.  
  
‘‘But Mr. Stark…’’ he can hear Peter mumble almost inaudibly behind his back, innocent hope in his voice. ‘‘I want to meet the aliens, too.’’  
  
Tony’s just going to act like he didn’t hear that one.  
  
‘‘You,’’ Tony acknowledges the Avengers. ‘‘You know where your rooms are, why don’t you have a slumber party? If not ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. or Vision, I couldn’t care less.’’ He turns on his heels, his undivided attention on Peter now, and realizes his tone must be packed with a lot of contempt judging by the kid’s expression. ‘‘And you’re coming with me. I hope you’ve brought your homework or something because I’m not letting you out of my sight.’’  
  
‘‘I have, actually!’’ Peter exclaims with his usual joviality. ‘‘I was hoping you could help me with something…’’  
  
Without giving him an answer (a pretty obvious one, mind you), Tony puts a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder and gets him out of the room as if there is a bomb ticking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here they are!  
> Two things:  
> 1) The next chapter will have a change of POV.  
> 2) These 5 chapters plus the next one have been finished for a while so from now on it will take me some more time to update, sorry guys, but don't worry, I won't abandon this fic—I already love it too much!


	6. Chapter 6

‘‘Have you had breakfast?’’ Tony asks, his voice fading while he and the kid walk out of the communal area.  
  
Only one thought is on his mind and it’s to follow Tony, when suddenly there’s a firm grip on his arm, anchoring him in place. He looks over his shoulder, brow furrowed—he’s almost forgotten that there are more people with him.  
  
‘‘Give him a moment, Stevie,’’ says Bucky in a whisper meant only for him to hear. He never uses the nickname in front of other people so Steve must really look distressed, like he’s about to do something stupid. Figures.  
  
Steve forces himself to draw a breath and shakes his head to get rid of the fog clouding his mind, taking a step in the opposite direction Tony just fled to. He raises his head and gives the room a once-over; there’s a situation to deal with.  
  
So… aliens. Aliens who are not trying to kill them or invade their planet.  
  
He locks eyes with Vision and feels a weak and hopeful smile tug at his lips.  
  
‘‘Captain.’’  
  
And just like that Steve, Natasha, Clint, and Sam are exchanging hugs and greetings with Vision, and Steve feels a bit lighter. It’s not enough but he really feels like the weight on his shoulders has lessened. There’s obviously still an uncomfortable and even awkward atmosphere but it’s to be expected. This compound has been a safe place for all of them, a place where they would reunite and spend time together. Steve is already being attacked by memories just by looking at his surroundings. Even so, he ignores the tightness he feels around his chest.  
  
‘‘So…’’ Steve tries to start a sentence but he’s finding it difficult, what with a raccoon using a fork to eat cheese just some feet away from him. The world can still get weirder. Huh. He’s about to say something—hopefully something eloquent—when there’s an odd noise at his right, something between an exclamation and a bewildered sound.  
  
‘‘What is this?’’ Bucky asks raising his flesh arm where Steve can see a… a chunk of wood? No, that can’t be right.  
  
‘‘I am Groot,’’ it (he?) replies.  
  
Steve eyes Bucky wearily, trying to predict his reaction, his next move. Maybe this is too weird for him? He doesn’t want him to freak out—not that he thinks that Bucky’s going to lose it or something, no, he knows he’s doing great given everything he’s been through, Steve just… worries. A little bit.  
  
‘‘I am Bucky,’’ is the only thing he says, lifting his arm in such a way that they’re at eye level. Steve can see that he’s trying to hide a smile. ‘‘Did you… Did you want something?’’ Bucky asks with uncertainty.  
  
‘‘I am Groot.’’  
  
Steve and Bucky exchange a look while the other Avengers get in a circle so they can observe Groot from a closer distance, too.  
  
Which is a bad idea.  
  
‘‘Hey!’’ the raccoon snaps, nearing them with long strides (‘‘long strides’’ being a bit of a relative concept in this context if you take into account his short… legs), fork clattering to the floor. Clint’s the only one who takes a step back, letting out a very unflattering yelp. Steve and the others do tense up, though, prepared for any contingency.  
  
‘‘Let him down,’’ the raccoon orders. (Steve only wants to ask him his name so he can stop calling him ‘‘the raccoon’’ in his head but he can see that it wouldn’t be the best decision right now. Bucky would be O so proud of his reasoning.)  
  
Before anyone can assure him that no one wants to hurt his friend, the tree starts swinging on Bucky’s arm and exclaims, ‘‘I am Groot!’’  
  
‘‘Groot, get down,’’ the woman (Gamora, was it?) says. She and the other two men are now next to the couch, their attention on the tree hanging from Bucky’s arm, using him as a jungle gym. They don’t look particularly preoccupied which means they don’t think the Avengers are going to hurt their little friends. Steve relaxes his shoulders, reading the situation as one where there won’t be a repeating of the shoot-out that _almost_ took place only five minutes ago.  
  
Steve is very aware of the change of Gamora’s offensive mien to one more open and even amiable. The shock he felt the first time he saw the alien woman is still lingering at the back of his mind but now is closer to something resembling awe. One more thing to ignore and file for later.  
  
‘‘I am Groot!’’  
  
Steve and the Avengers are still in a state of deep confusion, mere spectators who don’t understand what the hell is going on, but _Groot’s_ partners look horrified by his words. Which are the same once and again, only the tone’s been changed. They must be missing something.  
  
_Just go with it._ Steve feels like that one’s been his mantra since the '40s; the phrasing has changed but the message remains the same.  
  
‘‘Okay, who the hell keeps teaching him those words?’’ Gamora demands with one hand on her hip, eyeing with a stern look the big guy, then the raccoon, and finally the blond guy. No one gives an answer. ‘‘Rocket, stop laughing!’’  
  
‘‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s just…’’ And then he explodes with laughter again followed by the thunderous laugh of the guy with the red markings, who even has to brace a hand against the kitchen island so not to fall over.  
  
‘‘Great. I’m surrounded by children,’’ Gamora sighs with a roll of her eyes. Turning her back to her companions—letting them laugh it out—she says to the Avengers, ‘‘I’m sorry, Groot is just a kid. He can only use those three words to communicate. He understands us… kinda, but the only ones who can understand him is us.’’ She points at herself and her team. ‘‘Well, and your friend Vision, for some reason.’’  
  
Steve and the others look at Vision, expecting an explanation, but the android gives a mild shrug and says, ‘‘Not sure why that is.’’  
  
It seems like everyone decides to just _go with it_ and accept that it is what it is.  
  
‘‘It’s no problem,’’ Bucky reassures her and Steve feels like it’s been ages since he’s heard him use that kind of calm and carefree tone. It probably has. It’s not exactly the Bucky from the '40s—it doesn’t have to be and Steve doesn’t expect that—but it’s still his Bucky.  
  
Once again, he feels that thing his stomach’s been doing since they boarded the quinjet, the thing where it twists itself and then _freezes_ his guts. Buck should have stayed in Wakanda with his _goats_ , learning Xhosa with the local kids, attending his physical therapy sessions.  
  
Steve shakes himself and tears his gaze away, casting his eyes down, and then has to shake himself _again_ and straighten up, remain focused on what’s going on because he expects some catastrophe to happen at any moment. Which would be easier if he wasn’t currently feeling like an exposed nerve.  
  
Gamora’s starting to look more relaxed and even friendly, something Steve is glad for because he’s sure she would be a great challenge if they engaged in a fight. She’s observing Groot with a soft look, who’s already climbed on Bucky’s shoulders. Steve thinks she wants to take Groot off Bucky’s shoulders, maybe because she feels uncomfortable, probably because she still doesn’t trust them—which is only logical. The thing is, Buck is openly grinning now, arms raised in case he has to catch the strange creature if he falls over, and Steve doesn’t want that expression to fade.  
  
‘‘Um. I’m Steve Rogers,’’ he introduces himself extending a hand toward her. Do aliens shake hands? The Chitauri sure as hell did not. But she’s obviously from a different race, that much Steve can be sure of. That thought isn’t connected with the previous one, not really, but who can blame him; the last ten minutes have given him a lot to think about and he has to compartmentalize.  
  
She extends a hand to shake his own and introduces herself as Gamora with a smile; she then proceeds to do the same with the rest of the team. Steve’s dumbfounded. They’d come here prepared for a battle against aliens who want to conquer Earth but instead he’s facing a talking raccoon; a talking tree who is actually a toddler and is currently using Bucky as some sort of playground equipment; a green woman who, besides that little detail and the spare markings on her face, could pass as human; a strange but not hostile guy with his body covered, too, with red markings, and stunningly pale eyes (is it weird that Steve’s fingers itch to draw him?); and another guy from space but this one _knows_ who Steve and Bucky are.  
  
Speaking of, the guy is approaching them, wringing his hands with an uncertain expression. Steve suppresses a resigned sigh; he’s dealt with his fair share of fans and people who idolize him, and right now he’s not in the mood. He won’t be rude to the guy, that’s for sure, but he only wants to lie down for another seventy years. (He can already hear Bucky’s voice in his mind telling him to stop being so melodramatic.)  
  
(Or maybe it’s Peggy's voice.)  
  
‘‘Hi,’’ he says with a smile, extending his hand for Steve to shake. ‘‘I’m Peter Quill, from Missouri. It’s an honor to meet you, Sir.’’  
  
‘‘So you’re not an alien,’’ Sam chimes in just when Steve is about to ask the same question and probably tell Quill not to call him ‘Sir’.  
  
Steve turns so he can see the others: Clint just behind Sam, eagerly waiting for an answer; Bucky some feet away, observing Groot with an awed expression; Nat, Vision, and Gamora having a calm conversation; the raccoon, Rocket, has his arms crossed and it looks like he’s keeping a careful eye on Groot and Bucky; the big guy is still in the kitchen area—alone but doesn’t seem to mind it that much—eating his body weight in different types of cheese. Steve considers telling him that there are other types of food but decides that this is a good moment to choose his battles.  
  
Steve has so many questions but doesn’t know _how_ to ask them; he’s skeptical but these are Tony’s guests and it seems like he trusts them enough to let them stay in the compound—F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s installed in the facilities so they are never unguarded, but still. Steve just doesn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable, like they’re some kind of threat. He will just have to trust Tony’s judgment of character. A thought that’s not the first time he’s had in the last year, probably not even the thousandths time.  
  
‘‘No, man, I’m from here! Just, you know, got abducted by aliens when I was a kid.’’ (‘‘No, I don’t know,’’ Clint says drawing out the words, sounding dazed, but no one pays him much attention.) ‘‘Well, they kind of adopted me, actually. My father was a celestial, you know, like a god. My biological father I mean, but Yondu was my _real_ dad. I had to kill my biological dad 'cause he killed my mom when I was a kid and tried to kill me and more people,’’ he finishes with a grimace.  
  
Steve doesn’t know what to say (his mind stopped working after the alien abduction) so he nods and hopes for someone else to interject. Does Quill need to be comforted? A pat on the shoulder, perhaps? It was a long time ago, certainly he has other issues to worry about. Even so, Steve doesn’t want to come across as insensitive.  
  
‘‘That sucks, man,’’ Clint is the one who pitches in and Quill nods his head with a smile like he’s saying _‘‘you get me, man!’’_  
  
‘‘So what are you guys doing here?’’ Sam questions with interest, getting his wing-pack off his back and stretching. Clint follows suit and puts his bow and quiver on the low table, letting himself fall on one of the couches .  
  
‘‘I wanted to show them where I spent my childhood,’’ Quill explains, choosing the couch that’s free and sitting down, as well.  
  
‘‘And let me guess: Stark shot your ship—I guess you guys came in a spaceship, right?—he shot your alien spaceship out of the sky,’’ Clint interjects.  
  
‘‘Clint,’’ Steve warns and Clint just shoots him a look that’s just too innocent to his liking.  
  
‘‘Isn’t that what happened?’’ he prompts Quill, his tone too casual to be genuine.  
  
‘‘Yeah. Well, his Artificial Intelligence is the one that fired but—’’ he tries to explain, seeming a bit confused with the exchange of words and significant looks between Steve and Clint.  
  
‘‘Of course it wasn’t _his_ fault,’’ Clint interrupts with a sneer and Steve’s had enough of it.  
  
He approaches him and lowering his tone says, ‘‘Clint, we’ve talked about this already.’’  
  
‘‘No, Cap,’’ Clint snaps, springing to his feet, ‘‘you’ve talked about this; we didn’t get a say.’’  
  
Steve was hoping to have this conversation some other time, preferably when all of them were well rested, and not feeling so jittery and quick to jump at each other’s throats. He had imagined the argument with less shouting, as well.  
  
‘‘If you didn’t want to come then you shouldn’t have gotten on the jet—I told you that you should have returned to your family,’’ Steve reminds him with a strained voice. He knows mentioning his family isn’t the smartest thing to do but God does he want a break.  
  
‘‘I told you this was to—’’ Clint raises his voice another octave and there’s so much vitriol in his voice that Steve has to cut him off or he doesn’t know what he’ll end up doing. He doesn’t want more confrontations with his team.  
  
‘‘No, Clint,’’ Steve cuts him off unapologetically, stepping in his direction, knowing that he has to stop the situation from turning from bad to something even worse, ‘‘what you said was that Tony was just messing around and wanted some attention. At no point did you said that something _like this_ could be taking place.’’ At the time Steve’s finished, his chest is rising and falling with labored breaths, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s trying to remain calm but Clint can be really difficult sometimes.  
  
He gets it; they just got an early pardon thanks to King T’Challa and Clint was about to get to his family after all the time they’ve been separated. Steve understands that all right but he gave him the opportunity to just fly to his farm and Clint was the one who said he was going with them to the compound to help. He just couldn’t retire for good.  
  
No, that’s not fair to Clint. Steve knows why Clint came along, he knows that deep down Clint still cares about Tony, it’s just that… Well, that fight at Leipzig changed a lot of things.  
  
Clint stares him down, jaw clenched, and Steve feels his body prepare for a confrontation but after a minute Clint huffs, takes his weapon, and storms out of the room. Steve doesn’t catch everything of what he’s grumbling about but there’s something about ‘‘always fixing Stark’s fucking shit.’’ He doesn’t try and follow him.  
  
When he turns around, no one’s even trying to pretend like they haven’t been paying attention to their short argument. Steve snorts out a short and humorless laugh, too tired to pretend to care.  
  
‘‘I’m going to call T’Challa and explain the situation,’’ Natasha informs him with a calming smile, a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Steve knows she’s going to try and talk Clint out of his tantrum, too. Because that’s what it is and Steve doesn’t feel like trying to justify him right now, not when they had to come in a hurry from Wakanda because they thought Tony was about to… that he…  
  
Dear God, the moment he laid eyes on Tony on the couch, face lax, body immobile…  
  
Steve feels a sharp chill run down his spine, making him shiver. Not even a second after, there’s a warm and big hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, grounding him in mere seconds. He doesn’t even have to turn to know it belongs to Bucky, so he lets himself lean on it, trusting that his weight is going to be supported.  
  
‘‘You wanna sit down?’’ Bucky asks him in a quiet voice. Steve isn’t sure why he does that, maybe because he understands his need to always appear strong and collected in front of his team. ‘‘No one’s going to start shooting any time soon.’’  
  
Steve snorts, dipping his chin to his chest, his eyes closed and a weak but real smile twisting his lips. ‘‘Yeah, right.’’  
  
‘‘Well, I did say ‘any time soon,’’’ Bucky counters, amused.  
  
The pressure on his shoulder increases and then Steve’s falling on the couch with an indignant yelp. The offended expression doesn’t stay for long, not when Buck gives him his patented I’m-not-taking-any-of-your-shit-Rogers look. Steve just deflates like a balloon, his back hitting the couch’s cushions, giving himself a moment to just breathe.  
  
Steve takes the opportunity to do his usual check-up: Sam is having a conversation with Vision, currently asking the android about Colonel Rhodes (Steve is glad to hear that he’s walking thanks to Tony’s leg braces); Natasha and Clint are still somewhere else in the compound, Clint hopefully cooling off; Gamora’s in the kitchen area, discussing with Drax… the best way to use _Terran_ food in a fight; Bucky is with Groot again but this time (miraculously) they’re accompanied by Rocket, who’s examining Bucky’s bionic arm and trying to negotiate with him because the _talking raccoon from space would obviously be interested in owning Bucky’s prosthetic arm._ Jesus Christ.  
  
He lets himself lean more heavily against the couch cushions, at least for a moment, his gaze lost somewhere on the ceiling lights. The same position in which they found Tony.  
  
Tony’s reaction at the sight of Steve is still running in a loop in his head, waves of nausea still making his stomach churn. It’s obvious why Tony reacted the way he did upon waking up and seeing Steve looming over him. That makes it so much worse to stay at the compound when he knows Tony is _scared_ of him.  
  
_God, how did this happen? How could_ I _let this happen?_  
  
He hasn’t even thought about that possibility but after Tony’s reaction… it seems like the only outcome that could make sense after Siberia.  
  
And right now the only logical and sane decision would be to grab his things and team, get in the Wakandan quinjet, and leave Tony alone. But Steve is selfish and still hopes that they can fix things between them and the team.  
  
‘‘You’re making the face,’’ Bucky draws him out of his spiraling thoughts.  
  
Steve graces him with a dumbfounded look. ‘‘What face?’’  
  
‘‘The Tony-face,’’ Bucky answers with a smirk, sparing a glance at Groot and Rocket, the two of them poking at his arm.  
  
Steve blinks slowly, feeling lost. ‘‘What?’’  
  
‘‘Well, there are actually two faces,’’ Bucky clarifies, sitting on the spot at Steve’s right, Groot following him and climbing on the couch, too. ‘‘The one you’re making is this one.’’ Bucky faces him so Steve can see his face scrunch with exaggerated concentration, head tilted to one side, the corners of his lips turning down, eyes on the floor.  
  
‘‘And then there’s this one.’’ Bucky’s expression changes drastically but it’s still as ridiculous and silly as the first one: his mouth is open in a wide grin and his head tilted to one side, bright eyes staring into something that isn’t there.  
  
‘‘What are you doing?’’ Steve questions him in a flat voice. But he already knows what Bucky's doing and he's so very grateful for the light-hearted distraction.  
  
‘‘That’s your other Tony-face, pal,’’ Bucky states like he’s saying _‘‘deal with it’’_ , then returns his expression to normal and accommodates himself on the couch, metal shoulder brushing Steve’s right one. (Steve looks at Groot, who’s comfortably sitting on Bucky’s lap and playing with his metal fingers—doesn’t look like Bucky’s even noticing.) When Steve arcs an unamused eyebrow, Bucky simply proceeds to repeat the stupid face.  
  
‘‘I don’t make—’’  
  
‘‘Hey, that’s Steve’s Tony-face!’’ Sam exclaims with a laugh, finger pointing in their direction.  
  
Steve’s frown intensifies but Bucky just gives him a smug look.  
  
‘‘Not true.’’  
  
‘‘Okay, okay, it’s more like this.’’ Now Bucky props an elbow on his knee and lays a cheek on his palm, bright eyes lost somewhere far away and a dopey smile on his lips. He lets out a deep sigh for emphasis.  
  
Steve doesn’t know what to say when Bucky and Sam explode with laughter. He opens his mouth but then has to close it because… maybe it’s true? He already feels his face heat up.  
  
‘‘Yeah, you laugh, Barnes’’ Sam says, wiping off tears from his eyes, ‘‘but that’s your Steve-face.’’  
  
Bucky’s mouth snaps closed and the next thing Steve knows, there’s a pillow flying across the room and hitting Sam square on the face. Then Drax and Rocket start laughing, too, which is fine, totally normal. Just some aliens integrating. Who would have told him that encountering friendly aliens would be stranger that hostile aliens.  
  
‘‘God…’’ Steve exhales, throwing an arm over his sore eyes.  
  
Steve feels like he’s about to fall to pieces but despite that there’s laughter spilling from his lips. Maybe it’s because of the fact that there is no alien invasion, people are not going to get hurt. Maybe it’s because he can finally be home without the need to hide. Maybe because Tony isn’t hurt or trying to fight a battle by himself. (Steve fiddles unconsciously with the flip-phone that’s in one of his pouches.)  
  
The laughter has finally died down and Steve doesn’t know if the tears he’s wiping from the corners of his eyes are ones of glee.  
  
‘‘Man, now he’s making _that_ face, the one he made every time he brooded in front of your tank, Snow White. ’’  
  
Steve makes himself get up from the couch and puts himself between a snickering Sam and a frowning Bucky. ‘‘Okay, okay. You two stop. It’s late… well, early, actually, so we should better get some shut-eye.’’ No one seems to have anything against getting to their own private rooms and having some time to rest and unwind. He gets a nod from Sam, who’s already saying his goodbyes with everyone and heading for his rooms.  
  
(Gamora catches Steve's eye and sends him a look he interprets as: _‘‘Yours are five-year-olds too, huh?’’_ Steve shrugs helplessly and she twists her lips in a smirk.)  
  
Steve approaches Vision. ‘‘Tony’s… guests, do they have their own rooms?’’  
  
‘‘They do, yes,’’ Vision answers with a polite smile.  
  
‘‘That’s good.’’ Vision is looking at him with an expecting look. _Just go,_ Steve urges himself, feeling his pulse all of a sudden galloping inside his chest, _go to your room and sleep this shit off._  
  
‘‘Um. How is Tony doing?’’  
  
_Fuck, Rogers, can’t you keep your trap shut?_  
  
‘‘He’s doing well. Better.’’  
  
Vision’s demeanor is saying ‘‘polite’’ but there’s something in his expression that makes Steve want to look everywhere but at his eyes. That and find Tony and… and… He doesn’t know _what_ and it’s not like he hasn’t been spending whole nights imagining this exact moment, the moment when they would be face to face again and Steve would tell him how sorry he is, that… that…  
  
‘‘Steve,’’ Bucky says softly, like he doesn’t want to startle him. Maybe Steve should reflect over why Bucky’s been treating him with kid gloves lately, or like he’s some frightened animal he doesn’t want to scare away.  
  
When he looks at Bucky, Steve notices that there’s only the three of them left, not even Groot is clinging to Bucky’s arm anymore. With a final, _polite_ smile, Vision makes his way out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Steve feels his own mind miles away, eyes focusing on the light spilling from the windows, dust dancing in the air. He recognizes Bucky’s presence at his right and his body leans toward him on its own accord.  
  
Now that it’s only the two of them, Steve feels like he can let the mask fall, let his muscles uncoil. Even when it’s only Bucky present, Steve finds it hard to show that he doesn’t have everything under control, doesn’t have all the answers, doesn’t always know that what he’s doing is the right thing. But they’ve been working on that. Bucky is safe. (Steve is not sure if by that he means Bucky is a safe place or that Bucky is away from harm’s way.)  
  
‘‘Steve,’’ Bucky calls again, tone even softer, only for him to hear, even if it’s only the two of them in the communal area. Steve tears his gaze away from the windows and faces Bucky who gives him a wan smile. ‘‘I’ve never been here so I don’t think I have a room. Show me 'round?’’  
  
_You shouldn’t have come,_ Steve wants to tell him. The force of the words making his head throb, as though they are trying to pierce his temples and get out. _I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. You had a life in Romania and I took that away from you because I’m selfish._  
  
He can almost feel the words making their way to his tongue but the knot in his throat doesn’t let them pass. He can’t swallow them; he can’t get them out. They’ve been rotting inside him for a long time, now.  
  
_You were already building a life in Wakanda and then I had to take it away from you again. For the last seventy years, things have only been taken from you and the only one who’s only given you something apart from Wakanda has been yourself._  
  
He feels the need to go to church and confess. There are so many sins already, piling up.  
  
‘‘Stevie?’’ He’s aware that Bucky is trying not to show that his behavior is making him worry.  
  
_You don’t owe me anything. Not a thing. You shouldn’t have come. You didn’t_ have _to._  
  
‘‘Come on, I’ll show you my room.’’  
  
Slowly, Steve is aware of his body _thawing_ , and with Bucky’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, they make their way toward Steve’s rooms, feeling as if he’s walking through mud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say one thing: isn’t it wonderful and at the same time awful that the canon Stucky song is ‘‘It’s Been a Long, Long Time’’ interpreted by Kitty Kallen?  
>   
> If you don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, that’s the song that was playing in Steve’s apartment in CA:WS when Fury was shot by the Winter Soldier, and Bucky (as the WS) and Steve got reunited after 73 years.  
>   
> The song is about a woman that gets reunited with her husband who comes back from the war !!!!  
>   
> Whattttt??? marvel give us stucky!!!  
>   
> No, but seriously. I’m a multishipper but if I’m honest the only pairing that would make sense making canon is Steve and Bucky and it would be the greatest love story in film history.  
>   
> Cowards.  
>   
> I think I’ve spent 3-4 hours (today) editing this chapter and I’m still not sure if I like it. Sigh.
> 
> EDIT AFTER WATCHING ENDGAME: We are clowns, literal fucking clowns. Marvel is trash.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, sorry.  
> 

His mind is somewhere far away, far away from his lab even when he’s… doing something… something… schematics, holograms, wrench, blowtorch… His tunnel vision while tinkering has developed into something more… detached. Detached from his self; detached from his surroundings; detached from his own hands and mind that are currently building _something_ he doesn’t really see. He doesn’t need to be a genius to know what is going on but he doesn’t feel like putting a stop to it—maybe he doesn’t want to; most certainly doesn’t have the strength or willpower to.  
  
Coming back to his body, to reality, would mean dealing with everything that’s just been dumped on his already overflowing plate.  
  
In a _detached_ kind of way, Tony feels his lips moving, talking so Clint—who’s just outside his lab—can hear him say through the speakers than he can get lost, that he has no business here. (It’s so strange how steady his voice sounds. Someone should give him a pat on the back.) He thinks he remembers letting Quill in. The raccoon (he’s certain he lets out an ungraceful snort because a _space raccoon_. Pretty sure the two Peters regard him with curious looks), Rocket, is there too—Tony warns him not to play with anything.  
  
There’s something at the back of his mind, something nagging him, telling him _‘‘look at me, look at me. I’m not going anywhere’’_ in an ugly voice.  
  
Tony doesn’t know how much time has passed when, suddenly, he finds himself sitting at his desk, phone to his ear, in the middle of a conversation with Happy. There’s a smile on his lips, one that feels just like a dream when you wake up, when you feel it fading away into oblivion.  
  
‘‘Yes, we’ll go to the theatre next week,’’ Tony’s voice reassures Happy; he’s still not completely present but he’s getting there.  
  
‘‘Okay, but don’t lie to me this time; I’m choosing the movie and you’re not changing it, certainly not without telling me,’’ Happy warns in his no-nonsense voice. Yeah, see? Now this smile Tony _does_ feel. Everything’s okay. He’s _fine_. His therapist doesn’t know shit.  
  
‘‘Of course, Happy,’’ he disregards his concerns with ease, waving him off with a hand even when Happy can’t see him. Yes, now _that_ feels like a genuine smirk on his lips.  
  
‘‘I’m serious, Tony,’’ Happy presses on with a stern voice. Tony can’t help himself and lets out a chuckle; he can totally picture him with a raised finger. ‘‘It’s not funny, Tony. And no buying all the tickets so you can comment on the movie without being interrupted.’’  
  
‘‘God, you’re no fun.’’ Tony lets out a dramatic sigh and swivels on his stool. ‘‘Okay, okay, you win; we’ll watch your pretentious French history movie surrounded by asshats.’’  
  
There’s a pause.  
  
‘‘I’m not thanking you,’’ Happy informs him.  
  
Another deep sigh and Tony says, ‘‘Such ungratefulness.’’  
  
‘‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’’ Happy informs him, ignoring his theatrics.  
  
_Pick me up_ now, he wants to say. _Get me out of here._  
  
‘‘Okay,’’ is what comes out of his mouth, instead.  
  
‘‘And, Tony,’’ Happy starts saying with his listen-to-me-carefully voice, ‘‘call Pepper and Rhodes.’’ He doesn’t add anything else, no explanation, doesn’t inform him about how they miss him or how worried they are.  
  
‘‘I will, Happy,’’ Tony answers in a quiet and solemn tone, for once.  
  
‘‘Okay, I’ll see you next week, boss.’’  
  
Happy doesn’t push Tony to say more than he can and God does Tony love him for that and so many other little things.  
  
He hears himself say ‘‘thank you’’ in the speaker but the connection has already been cut. He puts the phone down and runs his oil-stained (actually, he doesn’t remember what he’s stained his hands with) fingers through his messy hair. He has to pull and twist his fingers so he can get them out of the rat’s nest that he’s turned his hair into.  
  
Tony blinks his eyes owlishly, giving the room a careful look-over, taking it in to ground himself, to completely return to his body: Rocket is talking with Groot and if Tony’s not mistaken, the space raccoon sounds exasperated; Quill is in a far corner, hunched over a holoscreen—Tony’s not sure but he thinks he remembers Peter approaching his desk to ask him if he could show Quill _something_ in one of the computers scattered around the lab. Oh, ok, so that something had probably been YouTube, or at least that’s what Tony can see on the holographic screen from where he’s sitting. Huh. He’s not watching cat videos. What’s even the point, then?  
  
With a yawn, he gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head, standing on his toes, everything popping into place. He then turns on himself, his eyes looking for something even before his brain can process the information about what he’s trying to find.  
  
Tony feels himself go hot and cold all over. An alarm is blaring in his brain accompanied by a loud whooshing sound in his ears. He braces a hand against a metal table and wills himself to take a deep breath.  
  
_Peter is okay, Peter is safe. Even if he’s not here. Even if he’s not here and I was supposed to watch over him._  
  
Another deep breath; Tony has to remind himself that this isn’t a war zone _(for God’s sake get it together)_ , the kid is in no danger even if the Avengers being back still has Tony on edge—but they don’t translate into a threat to Peter. Even if he’s not with Tony, even if he’s exposed to the Avengers, that doesn’t mean something bad is going to happen. Jesus Christ, why is he like this?  
  
‘‘J, show me—Fry. Sorry. F.R.I.D.A.Y., video feed of Peter.’’ His voice is strained, taut as a bowstring.  
  
The holographic display shows him the kitchen area—Tony clutches the desk without meaning to, feeling more than seeing his knuckles go white, tendons straining under the force he’s applying on the metal surface.  
  
_Don’t freak out, Jesus fuck, just don’t. What do you even think he’s going to say to him? ‘Hey, kid, you should kick Tony to the curb and come with us. We’re cooler.’ Or maybe something like ‘Tony is dangerous, you shouldn’t trust him.’_  
  
Tony knows Steve wouldn’t do something like that but he still has a sense of paranoia clinging to the back of his brain.  
  
He forces himself to banish the holographic display and starts counting his breaths, knowing there’s nothing he can do at the moment (he’s _definitely_ not going to activate the alarms and fire sprinkles or something as ridiculous just to get Peter out of there as soon as possible—that thought hasn’t even crossed his mind.) He feels ridiculous, but making a scene in front of everyone else who’s in his lab would be even worse.  
  
Tony makes himself perform some breathing exercises, not getting any positive results since his temples are still throbbing, his pulse still racing, and there are still pointless images of Peter telling him that he doesn’t want to know anything about him, going through his mind.  
  
Eventually, the whooshing of the doors opening pulls Tony out of his increasing thoughts of abandonment. Like he’s a dog and his owners are going to dump him at a gas station.  
  
‘‘Mr. Stark!’’ The kid is almost bouncing with energy—Tony wonders not for the first time if all that vibrancy is the product of the spider bite or Peter’s always been so lively. The kid makes his way to Tony’s desk and sets down two plates of food. ‘‘I made you a sandwich.’’  
  
‘‘These are two sandwiches,’’ Tony points out with a raised brow, trying to suppress a grin.  
  
‘‘Well, Mr. Captain Am—I mean Mr. Rogers. Steve…’’ Peter stammers. Tony definitely has not missed that.  
  
(Total lies; Tony has been painful aware of Peter’s absence and everything that entails.)  
  
‘‘Don’t sprain anything,’’ Tony chaffs him lightly with a smirk.  
  
‘‘He told me to bring you this one,’’ Peter finally says, ears gone pink. He points at one of the sandwiches, the one with lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. ‘‘Actually, there were a bunch of sandwiches in the kitchen and I think all of them were for you.’’  
  
Tony’s still staring at the sandwich as if it can tell him what is the meaning of life, or at least why Steve would be compulsively making sandwiches. Surely, the kid is mistaken and the other sandwiches are for Steve himself—given his freakish metabolism—or his team.  
  
‘‘Thanks, kid,’’ Tony ends up saying. His heart feels too full, suddenly, and Tony has to clear his throat and look away from Peter, who’s sending him a look too earnest that he probably isn’t even aware of.  
  
Tony wishes he wasn’t a coward, wishes his father didn’t raise him the way he did because Peter deserves to hear Tony say how proud he is, that he’s a good person and one day he’s going to be a great man. But there’s a lump lodged in his throat that doesn’t let any words spill out of his mouth.  
  
‘‘Don’t mention it,’’ he says with an unruffled smile, unaware of Tony’s thoughts.  
  
‘‘Hey, what are you showing Rocket Man over there?’’ Tony asks Peter with a pointed look toward Quill who’s typing something.  
  
‘‘Oh, he wanted to know what happened to some old musicians,’’ Peter explains, now looking at Quill, too. ‘‘At first, I showed him Wikipedia but he wanted to listen to their new music. Well, what would be ‘new’ to him.’’  
  
When Tony doesn’t add anything else, Peter turns toward him and looks pointedly at the sandwiches, and then at him again. Tony tilts his head, not understanding what that look is supposed to mean. Peter’s eyes open up some more and his head tilts toward the sandwiches once again. Tony’s brow furrows.  
  
‘‘Do you… want a sandwich?’’ Tony asks him.  
  
‘‘No, Mr. Amer—Mr. Rogers already made me eat one.’’  
  
_Of course he did. Still a mother hen even if now he looks like a serial killer living in the woods with a family of possums as his sole company._  
  
‘‘Mr. Stark…’’ Peter hesitates and closes his mouth. He’s looking everywhere but at Tony, a chagrined expression on his features that Tony doesn’t like one bit.  
  
‘‘Whatever you have to say, spit it out, kid,’’ Tony prompts him not unkindly.  
  
‘‘If you haven’t made up, what is he doing here?’’  
  
Tony lets out a sigh, not having to ask who he means. He pokes the peanut butter and jelly sandwich (the one made by Peter, he guesses) with a finger, gaining some time to think what to say exactly.  
  
‘‘You’ve been watching the news these last months, right, Peter?’’ Peter nods his head yes. ‘‘Then you know we’ve—the United Nations and the United States, that is, have been working on an agreement, an arrangement so the… so the Avengers can be pardoned and set foot on American soil without being hunted down by their government.’’  
  
_And our government can use them as it pleases,_ Tony doesn’t say.  
  
Peter’s nodding his head thoughtfully. ‘‘So they’ve been pardoned?’’  
  
‘‘Apparently,’’ Tony answers but there’s a questioning note in his tone. ‘‘It wasn’t supposed to happen this month, but I guess America can’t live another day without its golden boy.’’ Again, that bitterness in his tone, the one he tries to hide, especially from Peter, in front of whom Tony wants to be his own best version. Maybe this is his better version which must be really disappointing for Peter.  
  
Tony feels Peter’s eyes boring into him but the kid doesn’t add anything else for a long minute. ‘‘You should eat a sandwich, Tony.’’  
  
Tony snaps his head up, taken by surprise by the informal address. Peter’s smiling at him, gentle at the same time as sheepish. Tony opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn’t know, but it’s interrupted.  
  
‘‘Hey, Peter!’’ Quill shouts out, accompanying it with a raised hand he’s shaking in the air, just in case Peter can’t spot him in the _crowded_ workshop.  
  
‘‘What’s up, Peter?’’ the kid shouts back with a grin.  
  
God, they already have private jokes. Tony doesn’t know either to laugh or sigh with defeat.  
  
Peter makes his way to Quill, dodging desks and stools, pausing to pat the bots when he’s approached by them just to be pestered some more, but Peter just stops for a short time to exchange some words with them, even when they only emit whirling sounds—even so, Peter's giving his whole attention to them.  
  
Tony shakes his head, feeling something weighing his heart down, something heavy in one of his atriums trying to make its way out of his chest without regard to Tony’s flesh and bones.  
  
He is unable to understand how he is this lucky to have Peter Parker in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you guys once again for all the kudos, subscriptions, comments, etc., you’re giving this fic. Really, I appreciate it a lot. And don't forget that comments are the writers' ambrosia.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, I was listening for the first time to the Pixies’ album Surfer Rosa and just… I kinda freaked out when I heard through my earphones: ‘‘This is a song about a superhero named Tony! It’s called Tony’s Theme!’’ Heck yeah!

In this occasion, when Tony comes out of his tunnel vision, it’s just like any other time. He blinks his eyes lazily, taking in his surroundings, but without having that feeling of wrongness clinging to his consciousness. There’s no cotton-like sensation cramming his mind, he doesn’t feel like he’s being put back together, thread by thread.  
  
Taking a look around, Tony checks who’s still in the lab. Huh. Ok, so he’s been granting access to the Guardians one by one. (Tony vaguely remembers Clint trying to speak to him and denying him access without even talking to him this time. That time he had been accompanied by Natasha.) Well, except the woman with the antennas who he hasn’t met yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to meet the jerk who knocked her out.  
  
‘‘Hey, Gamora?’’ Tony calls out after clearing his throat awkwardly. Gamora looks at him expectantly, still with the smile she was directing at Groot. ‘‘Your friend, Mantis? Is she… is she okay?’’ Tony picks one of the wrenches up, playing with it and not taking his eyes off of the tool.  
  
‘‘She’s okay; she’s tougher than she looks,’’ Gamora answers shortly. It doesn’t sound like she’s trying to ease his mind and guilt, emotion Tony feels like she can clearly see in his face and body language. ( _Natasha and she are probably going to be beasties in no time_ , Tony thinks with a shudder.) Tony understands; she isn’t bound to care if she hurts his feelings—something that hasn’t happened—and he probably deserves the Guardians to be more unsympathetic and hostile toward him. But they haven’t been so far, something that should settle Tony’s nerves but no, that would be too easy; he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
‘‘Um. That’s great.’’  
  
Gamora turns back to Groot—it looks like they’re playing some game using their hands and noses (does Groot have a nose? Tony is pretty sure he doesn’t.) Tony’s eyes make a frantic search of the room until they land on Peter; he’s still with Quill but this time Rocket has joined them. It looks like they’re having a good time.  
  
‘‘Is she…?’’ Tony starts saying, getting up from the stool and nearing the table Gamora is perched on, still fiddling with the smooth metal of the wrench. She turns her body so they’re facing each other this time. Tony shouldn’t feel such a great relief when he doesn’t find in her features any of the annoyance he’s searching for. ‘‘Is she going to…? I don’t know, maybe come down here?’’ he ends lamely, eying one of his shoes.  
  
He’s considering the idea of just fleeing his lab when Groot says… well, the only thing he says and since Tony can’t understand the alien it’s not something very useful to him. He catches Gamora nodding her head in agreement, though.  
  
‘‘Do you want to meet her?’’ Gamora asks, considering him with a thoughtful expression.  
  
Tony raises his eyes from the spot on the floor he was staring at and looks at her with something that probably resembles disbelief. He’s pretty sure she’s trying to suppress a smirk.  
  
‘‘Yeah, that would be… cool,’’ Tony finally answers and feels like banging his head against a wall would be a great idea at the moment. ‘‘I mean, she has _antennas_ ; we don’t see that often here.’’ Someone should probably knock _him_ out so he can be sure his mouth stays shut for once. It would be a win-win for everyone.  
  
‘‘I’ll talk with her later,’’ Gamora assures with a polite smile he returns without thinking to.  
  
Tony makes his way to the couch and lets himself fall on the cushions. It’s in that moment that it downs on him that it hasn’t even been two days since the Guardians crashed on his backyard and then the Avengers came out of nowhere. Which reminds him…  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., call Lion King.’’  
  
‘‘Calling King T’Challa’’, F.R.I.D.A.Y. says with a disapproving tone.  
  
‘‘Oh, come on, Fry,’’ Tony says in turn, ‘‘T’Challa doesn’t mind. He even tries not to laugh when I call him that, I can tell. I’m pretty sure he’s charmed,’’ Tony finishes with a smirk. F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t comment on it.  
  
‘‘Mr. Stark,’’ T’Challa greets him and Tony can hear the smile in his voice. He’s thankful the king doesn’t sound annoyed by their last almost phone conversation. ‘‘What can I do for you, Anthony?’’ T’Challa adds when Tony doesn’t say anything.  
  
Tony’s almost giddy with delight because of the fact that he’s in a first name basis with _the king of Wakanda himself_. How cool is that? And his vibranium cat-suit catsuit ( _no, Vision, I’m not calling it anything different; I don’t care if it’s a panther!_ ) Okay, maybe he had insisted a little bit that T’Challa call him by his first name and maybe Ayo, his bodyguard, doesn’t like the idea that much, but still.  
  
And maybe everything had started when the two of them had arranged a meeting (like proper adults, not like some idiots engaging in a fistfight in a parking lot after school) to discuss the shitshow the Sokovia Accords had turned into and what they could do about it and about the Avengers being exiled. They had met up in different occasions, first just the two of them and then with the government of the United States and the UN. Tony had been present when the assemblies took place but T’Challa had been the big shot, the one that had the chance to influence and convince the gathered ones about what the two of them had been discussing for months.  
  
‘‘Did you send your refugees to harass me?’’ Tony jests.  
  
‘‘No, I sent them to help you,’’ T’Challa answers pleasantly.  
  
‘‘Well,’’ Tony starts, grimacing, ‘‘everything’s okay here, actually. They’re just passing by, visiting. The _aliens_ , that is.’’ Tony looks over the back of the couch but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s paying any attention to him or the conversation—it’s not like the sound is meant to carry through the entire lab, but still.  
  
‘‘I have been apprised by Ms. Romanoff that Earth is in no danger—but it is good to hear you are okay, Anthony,’’ T’Challa says after a pause and Tony believes him.  
  
‘‘Yeah, well,’’ Tony adds like the skilled orator he visibly is. He clears out his throat before continuing. ‘‘So they have clearance to be here and, I don’t know, have a walk on the beach and… stuff?’’  
  
_You need to_ sleep, _Stark_ , he admonishes himself.  
  
Regardless of the fool Tony’s making of himself, T’Challa chuckles mildly. ‘‘Yes, Anthony, they are _free_ ,’’ Tony catches T’Challa’s pointed tone on that specific word, ‘‘to do and go where they please.’’  
  
‘‘Oh. Free. Of course. It’s not like they’re going to be on the government’s watch list,’’ Tony scoffs.  
  
‘‘Right now, the Avengers are not cleared out for missions or military engagement,’’ the king informs him.  
  
‘‘Well, the fact that they’re fully suited—Wait, wait. What are they doing here, then?’’ Tony demands. God, if the Dora Milaje hear him using this tone with their king… Tony doesn’t even what to know how much time the police would need to find every one of his body parts.  
  
At least T’Challa sounds unfazed when he answers, ‘‘Captain Rogers and his team had just returned from a mission when I gave them the news.’’  
  
‘‘That’s why you called me,’’ he fills in. ‘‘To inform me they were coming back sooner than we anticipated.’’  
  
‘‘Correct,’’ T’Challa confirms. ‘‘When F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced there were aliens in your backyard—’’  
  
‘‘You told Steve and the others,’’ Tony fills in again, nodding his head and trusting the king knows he isn’t interrupting him just to annoy him, it’s just his brain not being able to keep the information inside.  
  
T’Challa hums in confirmation, followed by Tony huffing a breath.  
  
‘‘I’m sorry for ignoring your call, Your Majesty,’’ Tony apologizes, sincere even if playful at the same time.  
  
‘‘I understand; you had to fulfill your duty,’’ T’Challa says sounding comprehensive, which only makes sense.  
  
A short silence follows, leaving Tony to take another look at the lab and see Peter with all the Guardians but Drax and Mantis. It sounds like the two Peters are explaining what a movie is so they all can watch one. For only having two friends, Peter is really good at charming aliens.  
  
‘‘I saw Barnes’ new arm; I assume it’s your sister’s work?’’ Tony changes the subject. He had been eying the arm even when fearing for his life, that’s how impressive it is.  
  
‘‘Yes, it is,’’ T’Challa confirms, warmth and pride in his voice that makes Tony smile.  
  
‘‘It’s… I would say ‘incredible’ but that would only be an insult. A masterpiece it’s what it is but I’m pretty sure she already knows that.’’  
  
T’Challa lets out a fond chuckle. ‘‘Yes, she does. She wanted to add a watermark or sign it but I prevented it by reminding her it would not be needed since no one else can replicate her work.’’  
  
Tony barks a laugh just imagining the scene. ‘‘Sneaky. Did it work?’’  
  
‘‘Well.’’ There’s a telling pause. ‘‘There is no watermark nor a sign, but she instructed Sargent Barnes to inform people whose mastermind is behind the craft. Her words, not mine.’’  
  
Tony bursts out laughing—without a doubt managing to startle someone in the lab—and after a while feels his belly starting to hurt because of all the laughter. After somewhat calming himself and wiping tears off his eyes, Tony clears his throat with uncertainty and almost shyly. ‘‘I… I’ve actually been working on a project of my own but this is certainly much, much better. Fry, get rid of those shameful schematics, pronto.’’  
  
Tony has given a lot of thought to the matter since he started watching the recordings from Siberia.  
  
For starters, Tony’s currently fairly sure Barnes’ metal arm had been connected to his nervous system, what with how he’d looked like he’d been about to pass out after getting it blown off of his body. Tony can’t even start to imagine—actually, he kinda can since he got his own non-consensual body modification non-consensually removed from his chest. No, it’s not the same—Barnes probably got his nervous system fried to such a level—  
  
Just trying to imagine it makes Tony nauseated. His hands are starting to shake and he’s sure his face is paler.  
  
‘‘Are you sure, boss? The designs are practical and impressive,’’ F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice brings him back, not letting him continue with his pondering.  
  
Tony snorts, trying to cover his embarrassment because an A.I. that butters up her own creator? Yep, truly mortifying.  
  
‘‘Yes, I’m—’’ Tony abruptly shuts his mouth. ‘‘No, don’t erase them. I’ll talk with Pep an arrange something, maybe create a new division. God, how didn’t I think about it sooner?’’  
  
‘‘Are you going to get into the prosthetic and orthotic business?’’ T’Challa prompts from the other end of the line, reminding Tony he’s still here and how in sync he can be with Tony’s own thoughts.  
  
‘‘Maybe,’’ Tony answers stroking his beard thoughtfully, his gaze lost somewhere on the ceiling.  
  
‘‘I will leave you to it, then, I’m sure you have a lot to think about,’’ T’Challa says kindly.  
  
‘‘Oh, right. It was a pleasure to speak to you, T’Challa.’’ It looks like today is the day Tony’s going to be honest and recognize he enjoys other people’s presence and tête-à-tête.  
  
‘‘Likewise, Anthony,’’ are T’Challa’s parting words.  
  
The connection is cut and Tony remains another few moments on the couch, images of Barnes’ shocked eyes on what remained of his metal arm still circling his mind. Tony shakes his head and finally gets up, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, heading to where the others are. He spots Rocket looking after Groot since the little guy’s… talking with the bots, all three of them. Has there ever been a more nonsensical conversation in history? Nevertheless, it feels good to have people around even if he’s not the one doing the social interactions. _Alien social interaction_ —just give him a day or two more and he will get used and it will stop being a novelty.  
  
It’s then that Tony catches the music that’s coming out of the speakers.  
  
‘‘ _Rubberband Man_? God, haven’t heard that song for a long while,’’ Tony states when he nears the desk the others are gathered around. Quill spins his head with enough impetus to give Tony whiplash. He catches Gamora directing an exasperated but definitely fond look at Quill.  
  
‘‘You like it?’’ Quill inquires with a smile that he’s obviously trying to dampen but it’s still blinding. ‘‘My mom gave me some mixtapes with her favorite songs before I left Earth; this is one of them.’’  
  
_Before you were abducted, you mean_ , Tony doesn’t say; he isn’t expected to know that piece of information. His building is swarmed with cameras and microphones and he wanted to know what was going on in his communal area after he left, sue him.  
  
Quill’s face is one filled with delight as though he’s won the lottery. It makes Tony wonder when was the last time this guy had the opportunity to share his human tastes with someone who understood and shared them, too.  
  
‘‘Yeah, I do like it. Your mom has—’’ The almost imperceptible shift in Quill’s expression makes him stop. ‘‘—had great music taste.’’ The tightness around Quill’s eyes and lips lessen a bit.  
  
Peter is _truly, actually, swear in God’s name_ doing homework when he’s just met aliens and one of them is a talking tree and the other a talking raccoon. Jesus, Tony loves this kid so much. Most of the time Tony feels like bubble wrapping Peter and not letting him out of his sight (he’s pretty sure his aunt May wouldn’t object if it ensures that he will be safe and healthy); now the need to protect the kid is so powerful Tony can’t help it and lets himself at least ruffle his hair, leaving his palm to rest on the kid’s neck. Peter’s concentrated expression gives place to one of surprise. Tony just smiles at him and there’s sudden warmth in his belly when Peter smiles back.  
  
‘‘So, Guardians of the Galaxy. What galaxy, exactly?’’ Tony changes the subject, still curious about the answer, though.  
  
‘‘It’s more of an umbrella term,’’ Quill clarifies.  
  
‘‘Yeah, we pretty much save any galaxy,’’ Rocket chimes in from somewhere in the lab but since he’s _tiny_ , Tony can’t really locate him.  
  
‘‘Or planets, if it comes to it,’’ adds Gamora.  
  
‘‘I am Groot.’’  
  
‘‘Yeah, or villages,’’ she translates.  
  
‘‘That’s pretty big of a deal,’’ Tony declares, feeling awed.  
  
It’s close to what the Avengers do—did but in a much larger scale and these guys look like a real family. They probably have their differences and dysfunctionalities but it seems like they have their shit together—at least enough to save galaxies together. They could be great allies if (some part of his brain scratches the word off and replaces it with ‘when’) they need help in the future.  
  
‘‘Well, thank you, then’’ Tony expresses his appreciation.  
  
Silence is what follows his words, something Tony wasn’t expecting. ‘‘My guess is that not a lot of people have thanked you?’’  
  
‘‘The universe has plenty of ungrateful morons.’’ Tony burst out laughing, taken by surprise when Rocket’s the one who answers. There’s a sneaker in the background, as sharp as Rocket’s teeth.  
  
‘‘Aw, man! I forgot to introduce ourselves as the Guardians of the Galaxy to Captain America and Sargent Barnes,’’ Quill laments, sounding miserable.  
  
‘‘And his team,’’ Gamora reminds him. She’s looking at Tony, though, surely because of the scene that took place some hours ago in the living area. She’s probably already came up with ten different theories about what happened between Tony and the Avengers.  
  
‘‘Huh? Ah, yeah, that too.’’ But he doesn’t look that concerned.  
  
The song changes to one of _The Jackson 5_ and Tony uses the excuse to divert the conversation away from the Avengers.  
  
‘‘When did you leave Earth, Quill?’’ Tony asks him offhandedly.  
  
‘‘Nineteen-eighty-eight. Why?’’  
  
Tony hums. ‘‘Curious. You want me to show you what happened with Michael Jackson and his music?’’  
  
‘‘He was already a pretty big shot when I was a kid.’’  
  
Tony feels a grin taking over his face. This is probably going to be a lot more entertaining than tinkering, right now.  
  
‘‘Oh, young padawan, you have so much to learn,’’ Tony muses softly, rolling his stool near Quill. (It looks like Gamora’s decided that Peter’s homework is more interesting than whatever they are about to do.)  
  
‘‘I don’t know what you just said,’’ Quill says confused.  
  
‘‘This is going to be good.’’  
  
Tony expands (theatrically) the hologram and starts typing.  
  
‘‘Fry, inform Pepper about the prosthetic division but block her calls. And Rhodey’s,’’ Tony adds as an afterthought. ‘‘I’m sure she will talk with him when she realizes what you’re doing. Oh, and we need pizza so you know what to do.’’  
  
‘‘On it, boss.’’  
  
‘‘Yes, pizza!’’  
  
Tony stops his typing because the two Peter’s sharing the same reactions in sync? That’s just freaky.  
  
‘‘Okay, Hallie and Annie, if you two could refrain from doing that next time I would be really grateful. That was weird, right?’’ Tony asks the room at large.  
  
There are different words of affirmation and an ‘‘I am Groot’’, whatever it means in this context. Even Drax is eying them with a frown. (Okay where did this guy come from? Or was he here the whole time and Tony didn't notice?)  
  
He returns to his doings, Quill enraptured at his side and, yes, that’s how Tony ends up spending his afternoon and evening educating in the music of the past thirty years a guy that got abducted by aliens when he was a kid.  
  
And, sporadically, his alien friends would demand information, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not fully content or satisfied with this chapter because I wanted it to be longer. There was going to be Clint, and Steve and Bucky… Ugh. But I wanted to post something for you guys to read and since I can’t make myself rush things, you got this.  
>   
> This is more or less the time that is going to take me to post the next chapters. I try to write every day (giving myself one or two days to take a break) but I’m going to the gym and my allergies don’t let me get more that 3 hour of sleep so… estoy en la mierda, as we say here in Spain.


	9. Chapter 9

Each one of them had accommodated themselves before starting the movie and no one had asked why they weren’t going to the communal area where there was a perfectly fine TV and comfy couches. They had picked out Star Wars Episode IV to watch since Quill hasn’t watched the prequels, but the blonde had insisted on watching the original episodes because, first: he wanted his friends to enjoy them as well, and second: he was convinced the most recent ones weren’t going to be as good as the original three. Tony wasn’t about to argue otherwise—he just wanted to see Quill’s reaction to Jar Jar Binks.  
  
Now, half an hour into the movie, all four of the aliens seem interested and entertained by the film. Tony and Peter had chosen armchairs from where to enjoy the film, meanwhile, the rest are seated on the same couch, with Groot on Gamora’s lap, whereas Quill had just picked a cushion at some point and flopped on the floor between Drax’s and Gamora’s legs. The former one needed to be assured—thoroughly and on different occasions—that what he was seeing wasn’t real. Between the two Peters, they had tried to explain, but even so Tony catches Drax casting suspicious looks at them as if he’s waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out of thin air and scream ‘‘PUNK’D!’’  
  
Hmm. Maybe they should have started with reality shows. Tony tries not to laugh at the surreal image that is Drax hooked on _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_ or some similar crap.  
  
Peter’s phone starts ringing and the kid excuses himself telling them not worry about pausing the film since he’s watched it enough times to recite entire dialogues off the top of his head.  
  
Tony stares at Peter’s retreating back, feeling the unease making its way to the forefront of his mind. He catches himself bouncing his leg for the fourth time since getting comfortable on the chair and makes the movement cease. The need to do _something_ is still there. Tony doesn’t know what that something is—  
  
That’s bullshit—he knows, just doesn’t want to admit something so pathetic, not even to himself.  
  
He gets up while the Guardians are immersed in the movie (though, when Quill raises his head and regards Tony with a questioning look, Tony has to explain with gestures to him that he has to do something.) He makes his way to one of the workbenches further from the improvised theatre and lets himself fall on a nearby stool. Tony rests his arms on the workbench, controlling the powerful urge to command F.R.I.D.A.Y. to…  
  
Tony huffs a frustrated breath of air and wishes for a drink because he knows he _will_ eventually give in and…  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., are the Avengers in the communal area?’’ Tony asks almost in a whisper, not sure if it’s because of the absurd notion that the Avengers themselves are going to _overhear_ , or simply because uttering the words makes him drown in shame and self-loathing.  
  
‘‘Some of the members of the team can be found in the recreational room, boss,’’ F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs him, voice only for Tony to hear.  
  
He glances over his shoulder, making sure that everyone is where he left them: Guardians still engrossed in Star Wars; Peter still speaking on the phone. All of them far enough not to see the holo-projection that pops in front of Tony’s face, contorted with disgust.  
  
Tony feels a heavy breath of air vacate involuntary his lungs, resulting in his body sagging against the metal desk. ‘‘No audio feed,’’ Tony instructs with a voice that even to his own ears sounds thick and not too far away from chocked.  
  
He just looks at the projection: Natasha, Clint, and Steve are sitting on the same couch, watching the news without interacting with each other. Just enjoying the company.  
  
_At least you have each other._ Again, appears that hurt and bitter voice.  
  
Tony shakes his head, trying to dislodge the childish thought. T’Challa had informed him of some of the activities they’ve been engaged in, and Tony’s pretty sure that hunting down terrorists around the world and trying not to pop up on any government’s radar wasn’t pretty fun (and it hasn’t been fun from his end either. Probably only F.R.I.D.A.Y. knows how many times Tony’s got _the_ phone out of his pocket just to put it back away, his treacherous mind telling him that they won’t want his help, concern, nor improved or new gadgets.)  
  
However, they’re still trying to do good by a world that stigmatizes them as criminals and a ‘‘danger to society.’’  
  
_They knew what they were getting into when they made their choice_ , is how Tony ends that train of thought.  
  
At first, Tony is content with only watching, assuring his foolish brain that _yes, look, they’re still here, they haven’t vanished or left; would you now calm the fuck down and let me get back to the movie?_  
  
But then he pays close attention to the almost imperceptible change in Steve’s body language. Maybe it’s easier to catch sight of his muscles bunching up with tension thanks to the fact that he’s always wearing clothes obscenely tight. Some things don’t change.  
  
‘‘Audio feed,’’ Tony hears himself ordering when Steve jumps to his feet in a blur, startling only Clint since Natasha had probably caught on Steve’s change of humor even before Tony did.  
  
‘‘—can they say something like this?’’ Steve’s voice comes through the speakers, clear and sharp, making a shiver run down Tony’s spine with not so much as a warning.  
  
_Fuck this_ , Tony thinks with a sudden rage that makes him see red, as if Steve’s own fierceness has switched on something inside Tony. No audio or video feed is cut, though.  
  
‘‘It’s not all lies, Steve,’’ Clint supplies casually. Steve doesn’t turn and look at the other man but Natasha shoots him a look that Tony can only interpret as a warning—a rare one on her part.  
  
Steve deflates like a balloon but finally gets his bearings. ‘‘How can they?’’ he asks again, louder but not sounding any less bewildered. ‘‘They…’’ A pause, Tony getting at the edge of his seat, heart pounding and eyes narrowed to slits.  
  
_Say it, Steve_ , he dears him.  
  
He doesn’t know what has Steve in such a mood but Tony feels antagonistic, and mad with himself because he gave in so easily and now they’re invading his compound ( _Barton, get your muddy boots off of the couch_ , hisses Tony mentally.) But what was he supposed to do? Kick them out and leave them with no roof? They would have found a place to stay but Tony can’t even make himself imagine doing such a thing to them. He didn’t even have to be a pushover, seeing as no one had even made a mention about staying at the compound; Tony had just thrown it at them. Well, it’s not like they can complain about the free rooms, free food, free everything. Unless coping with Tony’s presence it’s too much for some of them.  
  
Steve’s voice gets Tony out of his head.  
  
‘‘He’s Earth’s greatest defender and…!’’  
  
‘‘Cut!’’ Tony chokes out with lips that suddenly feel numb.  
  
That fucking earnest tone. How dare he…! After what happened in Siberia and he…!  
  
Tony’s hands are trembling—he doesn’t know what emotion is causing it but it’s not pleasant.  
  
After almost a year of not seeing each other, not speaking, no nothing; a year of watching those stupid recordings of the fight,  
  
(the memory of his metal boot impacting against the man’s head assaults his mind. The sound of metal against flesh, against bone, resonating in his brain. The blood he’s not sure isn’t still in the crevices of the suit)  
  
of learning about Sargent James Barnes’ different and creative tortures at the hands of HYDRA—  
  
Goddammit, not nausea on top of everything he’s already feeling—he can’t even recall the gruesome images without his stomach trying to turn inside out. Oddly enough, the disturbing images intruding into his thoughts are the one thing that brings him back from the edge.  
  
Tony unclamps his numb hands from the metal desk (shakes them to return some feeling to his fingers) and makes an effort to stand on his two feet. Tony knows he and Steve (and therefore the rest of the _team_ ) have shit to sort out. He’s even practiced in front of a mirror what to say—always in the wee hours of the night, when he feels that even F.R.I.D.A.Y. is absent from the facilities.  
  
None of his rehearsals included yelling (well, maybe the first drafts did) or putting the suit on and trying to beat the Captain’s perfect face in. It’s just that…  
  
_Fuck you, that’s what_ , Tony thinks with feeling. _Why didn’t you ever tell me that when you had the opportunity, Steve? Why did you wait until Yoko came and the band broke up?_  
  
Perhaps the voice spitting these words doesn’t sound as vicious as it sounds childish and hurt.  
  
Tony decides then that is an issue he can’t solve at the moment, doesn’t even feel like poking it with a ten-foot pole. Currently, he has guests from outer space watching… Huh. Ok, so maybe said guests from outer space watching a movie about outer space made by earthlings it’s kinda funny and ironic—not a lot of people can say that. (Tony wonders what the Guardians will have to say about the science fiction of the films.)  
  
Huffing out a final laugh and forcing himself not to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to show him Steve—like some kind of pathetic _Beauty and the Beast_ bullshit parody—, Tony makes his way to the desk Peter always chooses to do his homework on. The kid is still on the phone and since it’s already late, Tony guesses May is already on her way to pick him up.  
  
He closes the class books and notebooks, as well as collects pens and pencils. He’s about to reach for the red and gold backpack when ‘‘Mr. Stark!’’ is exclaimed at his back.  
  
Tony looks over his shoulder and finds Peter only a foot away, a smile on his face and fingers fidgeting with his phone.  
  
‘‘Thanks, Mr. Stark, I can finish doing that,’’ Peter assures him and Tony just then catches on how different the smile looks from the kid’s usual one. Tony arches an eyebrow when Peter reaches with uncertainty for his backpack. Tony rolls with it, observing Peter hurry over and pick it up, hugging the backpack to his chest like it’s something precious. Or as if he’s hiding something. Tony doesn’t know if he has to be concerned or relieved because the kid’s finally behaving as a normal teenager. Peter needs a hobby that isn’t swinging through New York in a spandex suit, putting himself in harm’s way.  
  
_Oh, God_ , Tony suddenly thinks, his grin whipped off of his face. _Is it porn magazines? Should I talk to him about it? Jesus, is there a protocol? Has May had ‘‘the talk’’ with him, or maybe his uncle Ben when he was still alive? Should I speak to May and arrange a meeting? Oh, God…!_  
  
Just when Tony feels an expression of dread taking over his features and a bead of sweat rolling down his back, something catches his eye when Peter tries to make his way to the armchair without drawing any attention to himself.  
  
‘‘Peter,’’ Tony calls him, ignoring the fact that Quill turns his head, too. When he catches Peter’s eye, Tony beckons him to come over, which the kid does reluctantly.  
  
‘‘You need something, sir?’’ Peter asks with a strained smile.  
  
‘‘Kid,’’ Tony starts but doesn’t know how to continue because this is weirder than catching a glimpse of some dirty magazines. Right? ‘‘Peter, is that,’’ he says pointing at Peter’s chest, ‘‘an Iron Man backpack?’’  
  
He observes Peter’s expression whiten and has to conceal a laugh with a cough.  
  
‘‘Um…’’ is the only thing that comes from Peter’s open mouth. ‘‘I didn’t buy it!’’ he hurriedly tries to explain himself. ‘‘It was a joke, I mean—! Look, I lost my backpack—’’  
  
‘‘Again?’’ Tony interjects but it seems that Peter’s brain doesn’t even register the man’s words, in a too much of a hurry to get the explanation out.  
  
‘‘—and Ned thought it would be funny but… Agh, nevermind,’’ is his final word, and then he proceeds to cover his red face with his hands, backpack trapped between his arms and chest.  
  
‘‘Don’t worry, kid,’’ Tony says with a cheeky smile that Peter can’t see. ‘‘I know you’re a fan. Do you want me to sign it?’’ Peter makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat and Tony decides not to mess with him any further. ‘‘You’re aware that I’m a billionaire and can get you another one, right?’’  
  
‘‘Yeah,’’ Peter answers, finally uncovering his still pink cheeks (Tony wants to pinch them and draw him in a hug but remembers his mom doing the same thing when he was Peter’s age and refrains from it.) ‘‘But aunt May will kill you if you do it again.’’  
  
‘‘True that,’’ Tony concedes with a nod.  
  
‘‘And she still doesn’t know about the new phone,’’ Peter says with something akin to discomfort. Tony considers him with a thoughtful look and reaches the conclusion that it’s better not to press the matter, even though he could buy Apple _and_ a mansion for May and Peter and it wouldn’t even be close to making a dent on his bank account.  
  
‘‘When is your aunt picking you up?’’  
  
‘‘Oh, about that,’’ Peter starts with the kind of uncertainly Tony knows that means he’s unconformable with what he’s going to ask of Tony, which in the majority of cases are totally reasonable things. ‘‘She said to ask you if I could spend here the night because she had to take the night shift.’’  
  
‘‘Of course, kid,’’ Tony doesn’t delay his answer. He lays a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, feeling relieved when the kid stops the unconscious wriggling of his hands. ‘‘You remember where your rooms are, right?’’  
  
‘‘Yes, next to Vision’s,’’ Peter dutifully answers, his usual vivacity back as well as his open-faced expression. Something squeezes Tony’s heart when he watches the kid’s uncertain smile turn into something genuine.  
  
‘‘You can have a sleepover and talk about girls and… and boys?’’ Peter grins but it looks like he’s actually trying really hard not to burst out laughing. ‘‘And toasters.’’  
  
‘‘Toasters?’’  
  
‘‘Viz is kind of a toaster himself,’’ Tony clarifies with a dismissive wave of his hand and Peter finally dissolves into giggles. He then changes the topic, ‘‘You okay with no web-slinging or kitty-rescuing today? I know how important it’s to you.’’  
  
‘‘I…’’ Peter casts his eyes down, something like shame crossing his face.  
  
Tony frowns confused and catches himself before he can so much as reach for the kid. That distress is not acceptable and the man itches to make it right but he knows Peter needs his space, not to be coddled as much as Tony wants at the moment. So he gives him a moment to decide if he’s going to confide to Tony what’s bothering him.  
  
It’s not exactly that he _wants_ to act as an overprotective mother hen, but making sure that Peter is well does make things more bearable for Tony.  
  
‘‘Lately, I haven’t been patrolling as much as I used to… before,’’ Peter confesses and that shamefaced look has no right to be haunting the kid’s young features.  
  
Tony knows what that ‘‘before’’ means. Before the kid almost drowned in the Hudson River, before he almost got crushed by a fucking building, before he almost watched a man die. Before almost dying in so many different occasions that Tony gets dizzy just recalling. Before learning what being a superhero really entails.  
  
‘‘Peter,’’ Tony says his name softly. He doesn’t know how to make this better but he damn sure is going to try. Peter drags his eyes from his shoes and back to Tony’s face, not really meeting his eyes but instead looking at something over the man’s left shoulder. ‘‘Peter, look at me,’’ Tony insists, maintaining the light tone.  
  
‘‘I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.’’  
  
‘‘Hey, none of that,’’ he insists. Really, the man has a heart condition, why is this kid trying to provoke him a heart attack with those sad doe-eyes?  
  
Tony takes a deep breath, an action Peter _somehow_ must interpret as disappointment or something as negative (and far from the truth) because he breaks eye contact with a grimace.  
  
‘‘I’m proud of you, Peter,’’ Tony blurts out before the kid can get any worse ideas. Peter looks at him with wide eyes. ‘‘Hey, don’t give me that look, kid. I’m proud of you, Peter. Why is that such a surprise to you?’’  
  
‘‘Because I’m letting down a lot of people,’’ Peter states and there is so much conviction in his words that Tony feels like a complete piece of shit.  
  
All the time he’s spent moping in the mansion, moping in his lab, moping in the training room when Vision forces him to use it, he could have spent it with Peter. After all the shit the kid’s gone through in such a short period of time, and Tony hasn’t even thought that Peter may need some reassurance, some support, some comfort. It’s not like they haven’t talked or seen each other—Tony’s made sure that none of the radio silence is directed toward Peter—but he could have done so much more.  
  
‘‘I can do so much with my powers,’’ Peter continues, unaware of the tight band crushing Tony’s chest. ‘‘But I’m not!’’ There’s no need for Tony to hear the self-hatred in the kid’s voice—he can see it reflected on his face and feel it in his own chest as a memory. ‘‘I’m not out there helping people b-because—’’ Peter has to stop when he chokes on the words.  
  
‘‘Hey,’’ Tony tries to calm him with a soft tone (even if he feels so, so lost and useless.) He’s not sure how the kid is going to react, but Tony remembers how he wanted his father to comfort him and how Howard didn’t even acknowledge him when he was upset and hurting. He takes a step forward and wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders, drawing him closer. ‘‘Hey, take it easy, Peter.’’  
  
The kid’s back is stiff under Tony’s arm but after a few seconds, he lets himself relax. He takes a glance at his young features and decides that it’s time to break the cycle of shame—Tony has already told Peter as much so he has no excuse.  
  
Tony stirs him toward a desk and sits him on a chair, getting another one and placing himself close to the boy. Intellectually, Tony knows that Peter is almost as tall as him and that the kid is not skinny or frail, but looking at him now with his hands clasped between his knees, head bowed, hunched shoulders… it looks like he’s trying to make himself appear as small as possible (to his mind springs the unwanted and uncalled memory of Steve doing the same thing in numerous occasions) and he’s accomplishing it. God, he only wants to hold the boy, to make sure he’s safe and content. It’s the least he deserves.  
  
He doesn’t make any attempt, though, sure it will probably be crossing some kind of boundary—it’s not like Peter is _his son_ or something, he doesn’t even have the privilege to be his drunk but cool uncle—, so no matter what he won’t make him feel the slightest bit uncomfortable.  
  
He catches Peter furtively glancing at him and Tony puts some more distance between their chairs, though he reaches a hand and clasps Peter’s shoulder.  
  
‘‘You with me, kid?’’ Peter nods. ‘‘Listen to me now, Peter.’’ Tony makes sure that he’s receptive before carrying on. ‘‘What you did in that beach—what you did even _before_ that…’’ He pauses, still feeling awed and so proud just remembering. And so, so _terrified_. ‘‘Kid, that was beyond heroic, beyond brave.’’  
  
Peter still isn’t looking at him but Tony knows he’s listening, thinking about what the older man is telling him.  
  
‘‘This world we’re living in? Every day, there are more people like you or like me—with powers or with enough knowledge to build machines or suits that can do inhuman things. Not all of them use these… traits, so to speak, for good.’’ Tony makes a pause, chewing on his bottom lip, unsure of _where_ he’s going with all of this babbling. ‘‘But, you, Peter, you are the one that makes the real difference.’’  
  
This does make Peter raise his head, even if it’s only to regard Tony with a skeptical frown. Tony smirks at him, ruffling his hair with fondness.  
  
‘‘Peter, what you do, _how_ you do it… You have no ulterior motive, that much I can tell, but there is _so_ much more.’’ Tony looks Peter in the eye, needing the kid to see how incredible he is from other people’s eyes. There is so much Tony has and wants to tell him that the words and ideas run each other over in his mind. ‘‘You help every person that needs it, Peter, and I don’t think you understand how uncommon that is. Do you see me putting the suit on to patrol the streets every day?’’  
  
‘‘You’re an Avenger!’’ The almost outraged tone makes Tony snort.  
  
‘‘Not anymore, not really. And that’s just a pretentious title we made up, keep that in mind. But Spider-Man… Spider-Man is a different matter altogether. People don’t know your identity, kid, they don’t have an address where to send you their fan-mail and thank you notes.’’  
  
Peter’s frown deepens now, not having a clue what the man is exactly trying to tell him. Another smile takes over Tony’s lips because that’s exactly what he’s talking about!  
  
‘‘You don’t even understand what I’m trying to say, do you?’’ Peter doesn’t give any answer but that’s all the confirmation Tony needs. ‘‘The newspaper spill libel about you and the news have been slandering you since Germany, but that hasn’t stopped you, hasn’t turned your energy and determination into bitterness.’’ He’s on a roll now. _Fuck you, Howard, I’m not following your steps._ ‘‘You don’t care about admirers, don’t need a thank you after saving someone’s life. You just _help people_.  
  
‘‘After what took place in Coney Island…’’ Tony covers his face with one palm and shakes himself out of the memory, the time he was briefed on what happened. He extends a hand to at least clasp Peter’s shoulder, a reminder that he’s here. ‘‘After that, no one, _especially_ not me, Peter, would blame you if you needed some time to recover from such a shock.’’ Tony feels like that’s an understatement, closely to trivializing what happened.  
  
Peter still looks uncertain and Tony’s getting exasperated.  
  
‘‘Peter,’’ Tony says pointedly. ‘‘Are you conscious of the fact that you’re a sixteen-year-old _kid_ —don’t even think about contradicting that one, young man—that puts his life in harm’s way to save other people or at least make _their_ lives easier? You don’t expect to be thanked, don’t expect people to pay you for your hard work. Do you know what I was doing at your age?’’ Peter shakes his head. ‘‘Actually, I don’t remember, but I’m sure it wasn’t something as impressive as _hurling myself from a building_ and then using webs of my _own design_ to catch myself on different buildings through New York, and _also_ stopping criminals. Give yourself some credit, seriously.’’  
  
That finally extracts a smile from Peter. Tony senses restless energy pouring from the kid but he assumes it must come with the _Spider-Powers Pack_.  
  
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Stark.’’  
  
Tony returns the smile and gets to his feet, Peter following suit.  
  
‘‘You going to sleep yet? What day is it? Don’t you have school tomorrow? I can call Happy and—’’  
  
‘‘It’s Friday, Mr. Stark,’’ Peter informs him, his smile still present. It makes Tony feel lighter. ‘‘I think I’ll finish the trilogy with them,’’ he answers, a thumb pointing over his shoulder and to the Guardians, who are suddenly getting on their feet and shouting at the TV. Yep, they’re adjusting just fine.  
  
Ok, now. Groot is making roots ( _wait a minute… root… Groot_ , Tony’s bewildered brain still has some spare space for that contemplation) grow from his hands and is using them to lift an armchair in the air. Just when he’s about to, apparently, throw it at the screen, Gamora and Quill’s stern tone make him hesitate for a fraction. Drax is observing them but gets quickly bored when there isn’t any immediate destruction, so he returns his attention to the (thank god) still whole TV.  
  
Despite Rocket’s snickering and encouraging for Groot to hurl the piece of furniture, the bonsai alien ends up returning the armchair to its designed place, going as far as to pat it with a wooden hand and get out an ‘‘I am Groot’’ that to Tony’s (inexperienced) ears has an apologetic note to it.  
  
Quill lifts a thumbs up with an expression that Tony would like to call apologetic but can’t, and raises his tone to say, ‘‘Everything’s under control!’’  
  
Peter and Tony exchange a look, both wide-eyed. Eventually, they just shrug their shoulders and decide to let it go (why _did you make me watch that movie, Happy?_ ) Peter returns to his seat next to the Guardians and Tony decides to get some work done. He hasn’t taken even one step when there’s a hand on his shoulder. When he turns on his heels, he finds himself almost knocked to the ground because of a hug. So much for keeping his distance so as not to overwhelm the kid.  
  
Tony doesn’t think it twice and embraces him, squeezing lightly his shoulders and strokes his hair. Peter, it looks, is a clingy hugger and Tony wouldn’t have it any other way. For once, he feels Peter is safe and that is a novelty. Tony is practically beaming, and when he tries to take a step back and Peter doesn’t let go, his cheeks are practically hurting thanks to the smile.  
  
‘‘Thank you,’’ Peter says again when the two of them brake the embrace. The kid is smiling, so Tony must have done something right.  
  
‘‘Don’t mention it.’’ Tony clears his throat; he’s trying not to follow Howard’s steps but this is still hard for him. Communication is good, communication is necessary. Ok, now he’s repeating his therapist’s words. ‘‘My dad… uh, he wasn’t really someone for showing support or, well, any emotion that wasn’t ‘why aren’t you doing more?’ or ‘go bother your mother.’’’ Tony clears his throat again, feeling his face heat up. He chances a look at Peter’s face: the kid has his eyes wide open, body leaning forward like he’s drinking Tony’s words in, his revelation. ‘‘I think I’ve already said that, but I don’t want you feeling like you’re not enough, okay? You are an amazing kid, and, once again, I’m _so_ proud of you, Peter Parker.’’  
  
Now, the kid’s smile is so big it looks like he won’t be capable of speech. Peter ducks his head with another bashful thank you. Before returning with the Guardians, Tony catches a hint of red on the boy’s cheeks and right now his heart is so full of _positive emotions_ , he’s certain his suit won’t need an arc reactor to power it up.  
  
Tony lowers himself on a stool with a huff of breath, feeling a bit lost and exhausted, clearly not one accustomed to this kind of chats—he’s used to turning the sarcasm up when there’s any sign of a heart-to-heart conversation nearing his orbit.  
  
Squinting at his lab, Tony has no idea which one of his unfinished projects to pick. Bruce would have been helpful in this situation, knowing exactly what kind of work would have put Tony at ease.  
  
If Tony had been the one to choose an Avenger to return…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing the Tony & Peter scene I watched some of the Spider-Man: Homecoming scenes with Tony dadding and oh my god I have the dad!Tony feels. Such a great single mom. I love them.
> 
> God, so much Dad!Tony, I don’t know how this happened. That scene didn’t even exist at the beginning and then it wouldn’t get out of my head.
> 
> Btw when I was watching his dad-scenes for ‘‘research’’ and looked up what exactly ‘‘cycle of shame’’ means I made myself sad.
> 
> Tony: ‘‘My dad never really gave me a lot of support and I’m just trying to, uh, break the cycle of shame.’’
> 
> Cycle of shame: Hidden shame often drives self-destructive behaviors and other psychological symptoms such as rage, avoidance, or addictions. Self-destructive behaviors often are an attempt to regulate overpowering, painful feelings but lead to more shame, propelling the self-destructive cycle.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m exhausted! This chapter took so much time and energy!! *sigh*
> 
> Your comments, kudos and subscriptions have kept me alive! Thank you so much I love answering your comments guys!!
> 
> I'll calm down now.
> 
> EDIT:  
> *Thor comes to Earth after Ragnarok*  
> *sees Tony’s replica of Mjölnir*  
> *cries*

‘‘So who do you get your armor from?’’  
  
Tony lifts his head already confused. He’s been concentrated on the holo-projections surrounding him but this time not enough to completely forget about his surroundings. Now, Quill is in his space, waiting for an answer.  
  
‘‘Excuse me?’’ Tony asks, waving a hand and making the images fade away.  
  
‘‘Your red metal suits,’’ Quill clarifies. ‘‘There must be a bunch of engineers making them. The military has them, too?’’ The curiosity is clear in his voice but Tony can hear an undertone of worry, perhaps disapproval.  
  
Tony snorts at the man’s words, trying not to feel offended, or at least to not exteriorize it. ‘‘These are my suits,’’ he states, a wide gesture of his arm encompassing some of the Iron Man suits that are in the lab. It doesn’t look like Quill is catching on, yet. ‘‘No one else has suits like these—well, except my pal Rhodey but I gifted it to him and I’m the only engineer that makes upgrades to his suit.’’  
  
‘‘You mean…’’ Quill’s eyes suddenly lose their frown and widen with disbelief, an expression Tony’s only seen in kids’ faces. ‘‘You made them?’’  
  
‘‘Yes,’’ Tony confirms with a smile; he turns so Quill can’t see it. He just gets so stupid when someone shows a little bit of interest in his inventions.  
  
_Thanks again, Howard._  
  
When he has his facial expression in check, Tony turns to Quill so he can gauge what the guy’s thinking. Quill appears in deep thought, so much that Tony isn’t sure it’s not hurting him.  
  
‘‘And I guess this one was the prototype,’’ Quill finally says, one finger pointing at the Mark I.  
  
‘‘Yeah, kinda.’’ Tony turns his back to the suit; it may have been his salvation but it still brings painful memories back.  
  
‘‘Mr. Stark made that one in a cave while in captivity!’’ Peter chimes in from behind Quill. The kid hasn’t even reached them; rows of benches separate him from the two men.  
  
‘‘Kid,’’ Tony says, half warning, half fond exasperation.  
  
‘‘Sorry,’’ Peter says with a sheepish expression. He’s reached the workbench now, looking uncertainly at Tony.  
  
‘‘You need something?’’  
  
‘‘Um, yeah.’’ Peter rubs the back of his neck, an uncertain or probably shy smile gracing his lips.  
  
Quill has gravitated toward the few displayed Iron Man suits and is looking at them almost entranced. Tony smiles at his face which he’s pretty sure is filled with awe. It looks like he doesn’t dare to touch the—no, no, he just started poking them. ‘‘Hey, sweetcheeks, hands off the goods,’’ Tony calls out.  
  
Quill takes an uncoordinated step back, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t for Dum-E who has a rag in his claw and is probably about to begin obsessively cleaning the glass the Mark I is behind. So, Quill steps on Dum-E and staggers backward, crashing into Butterfingers, who’s arrived just in time to ‘‘help.’’  
  
Eventually, after knocking over a bunch of stools and parts from Tony’s discarded projects, Quill lands with an ‘‘oomph!’’ on the hard floor. The Guardians don’t wait for their teammate to reassure them that he’s uninjured, and explode into laughter—Gamora is trying to hide behind her hand but Tony can see the mirth in her eyes. Quill straightens with a groan after aiming a deadly glare at his team, and after checking himself for injuries he gets to his feet. He looks back at Tony and raises a hand, accompanied by an unconcerned smile in a gesture Tony translates to ‘‘everything is under control.’’  
  
‘‘Everything’s fine.’’ Yep, there you have it.  
  
Tony takes one look at the yawning Guardians and the slow way Quill is moving. ‘‘You should probably get some sleep. It’s late, right? Fry?’’  
  
‘‘It’s two o’clock in the morning, boss,’’ the A.I. informs dutifully.  
  
Tony directs one pointed look at Peter. ‘‘I was already going to bed, Mr. Stark,’’ he quickly assures him.  
  
‘‘Good, because you have training tomorrow morning with Vision,’’ Tony sternly informs him.  
  
‘‘Really?!’’ Why in the hell is that making him smile like a lunatic? This kid is not normal and that is definitely not making Tony smile.  
  
‘‘Yes. I already spoke with May and she thinks it’s a good idea.’’  
  
‘‘All right, Mr. Stark, I’ll do my best.’’ Tony can practically see how the kid’s demeanor changes into something soberer when he hears his aunt’s name.  
  
In a rare occasion in which Peter had opened up to Tony, the kid had told him about his fears now that May knows about him being Spider-Man. He is scared because he knows he’s deeply disappointed her _(Kid, you know that’s not true. Right?)_ ; he doesn’t want to make her worry _(Look, Peter, your aunt is always going to worry, there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s what happens when you love someone)_ , which he hadn’t shown with the normal I-feel-bad-that-she-worries kind of behavior but the I’m-going-to-blame-myself-for-eternity-and-be-sick-if-I-make-her-feel-like-that-again kind.  
  
And now that May knows about her nephew’s double identity, she is being overprotective to a level that Tony can see is making Peter overwhelmed and even irritated at times. She will call him almost every hour if he is at the compound and, not that she had liked Tony a lot before but now she resents him. The only ‘‘good’’ outcome is that now he has her phone number so he can call if there’s an emergency involving Peter or the other way around. Tony likes to think that after months of numerous phone calls regarding Peter, she is finally beginning to understand _how much_ Tony really cares about her nephew and that his well-being takes priority over every other thing.  
  
‘‘Um. Mr. Stark?’’  
  
‘‘Spit it out,’’ Tony prompts him, going over to the nearest desk and opening the drawers one after another.  
  
‘‘Is that a replica of, uh, Thor’s hammer?’’ He’s pointing at that useless ‘‘invention.’’  
  
‘‘You’re really trying to make me believe you don’t know the name of Thor’s hammer?’’ Tony questions with a raised brow, knowing well enough that Peter has some of a ‘crush’ on the god. He goes to another desk and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he calls Dum-E over. ‘‘Where’s the burn ointment?’’  
  
There’s a string of beeps and bleeps and the bot raises his claw and shakes it like a person would do to say no.  
  
‘‘You don’t know or it isn’t here?’’ Another blip, another shake of the claw. ‘‘Well I’m in dire need of it! There’s no more ice here either!’’ he whines.  
  
He can’t recall when exactly he used the blowtorch—or maybe he burned his hand when making coffee. Tony is opening random cabinets now, his hand throbbing insistently even though just a minute ago he hadn’t even known he’d hurt himself.  
  
Tony grits his teeth when it dawns on him what’s going on. The engineer takes a deep breath and lets it out before turning to face Peter, who’s been following him around the workshop like a duckling.  
  
‘‘Answering your question: Mjölnir is impossible to replicate—or at least no one on Earth can. It’s more like a… toy. It wasn’t a good day.’’  
  
Tony’s now in the center of his lab, arms akimbo, thinking what to do. He still doesn’t feel like getting out of here, not if there’s the slightest possibility of bumping into any of his human residents. God, but his hand is—shit, is that another burn on his forearm?  
  
‘‘Oh. Well, I think it’s pretty cool, Mr. Stark,’’ Peter opines with a warm smile, not looking at Tony but the fake Mjölnir.  
  
‘‘You can keep it if you want,’’ Tony offers, cradling his injured hand.  
  
‘‘Really?!’’ He should have expected that kind of reaction.  
  
Tony snorts, the pain of the burns currently forgotten. ‘‘Yes, really. Take it; you can sleep cuddling it.’’  
  
Peter does not waste any time and jogs to the travesty of a replica. He doesn’t pick it up right away but instead looks at it with reverential eyes. It’s so ridiculous and adorable Tony wants to laugh and hug him. (Has he mentioned already how much he adores this kid?) After a minute, he wields the hammer (obviously, without showing any exertion when doing so) and… yeah, there is that sound; he’s actually done a pretty great job recreating it. Tony feels a pained smile bloom and wonders not for the first time when is Thor going to remember about the petty humans waiting for him in this realm.  
  
Quill approaches Peter and asks him about the hammer and before they can start a conversation, Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘‘I want you in bed in ten minutes, young man,’’ he says with an exaggeratingly stern voice. The kid’s eyes are too wide so he gives him a smile. ‘‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’’  
  
Before he can make his way out of the lab, Peter gives him a hug, this time with more confidence. Tony hugs him back and realizes he hasn’t smiled this much in literal years. He feels like there’s been a barrier between them all this time and it has suddenly crumbled down. Tony’s sure he’s probably the one who’s kept it upright and imposed it on Peter. He tries to recall if he’s shown himself aloof in front of the kid.  
  
‘‘I’m proud of you,’’ Tony has to remind him once again.  
  
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Stark. For Mjölnir and, you know… everything,’’ Peter says with a smile in his voice. Tony thinks that’s it but then, ‘‘You haven’t finished your sandwich.’’ Tony pulls apart from him and after making sure Peter isn’t joking, he finds himself clutching at his stomach while laughing.  
  
Tony assures Peter he will finish eating it and bids his goodbyes with the others, who are still discussing the three movies they have just watched. More than six hours. _Such nerds_ , Tony thinks amused.  
  
The workshop is finally silent and empty except for him, and now he feels kind of… inapposite, out of place. It may be because this is the first time in almost a year that he’s spent so much time surrounded by people and actually enjoyed their company and not just put up with it. And now that they’re gone, it’s like someone’s shoved him in a dark and unknown room.  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y.,’’ he suddenly remembers, ‘‘tell Gamora and Quill that tomorrow we’ll discuss the best way for them to, I don’t know, go sightseeing or whatever touristy stuff they want to do.’’  
  
‘‘They both agree, boss, and wish you a good night.’’  
  
Tony feels his words stutter even before he’s gotten them out. ‘‘Uh. Oh, yeah, tell them same. I mean, likewise.’’ He clears his throat and decides to forcefully forget about that embarrassing reaction he’s mighty glad no one’s witnessed.  
  
Approaching another cabinet, Tony rummages through it but doesn’t find anything to soothe the burns with.  
  
‘‘Damn you, Pepper,’’ he curses between gritted teeth.  
  
Tony always stashes burn ointment in his lab and almost every time Pepper visits him down here or has him sign some paperwork, she decides to change its place. Why? Because she seems to think that putting it in the kitchen would give Tony a reason to get out of his self-imposed confinement.  
  
And damn her but it works because sooner or later he yields, and even though most of the times he can endure for several more hours whatever pain he’s caused himself while inventing, he knows Pepper checks in with F.R.I.D.A.Y. and worries when he’s still in the lab after too many hours.  
  
This time it’s not just the discomfort of the burns that makes him long for the unfiltered air out of the lab and the real silence not filled with the buzz of machines. Tony has the feeling that he’s going to completely lose it if he stays here one more minute. His brain and body are going to finally get with the program of the last months and just let him crumble down.  
  
Tony’s already in front of the exit but doesn’t dare to step out, yet. Then it hits him. ‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., when was the last time Pepper visited the compound?’’ It’s unusual, but he’s directing an accusing frown at one of the A.I.’s cameras.  
  
‘‘Ninety-one days ago, boss,’’ she answers.  
  
‘‘But she didn’t get inside the lab, right?’’  
  
‘‘You denied her access.’’ If the one speaking was J.A.R.V.I.S., Tony knows he would have clearly heard the reproach in his words.  
  
‘‘That I did. So could you tell me how is that the burn ointment isn’t where it’s supposed to be if Pepper hasn’t changed its place?’’ There is no answer. ‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y.’’  
  
‘‘You asked if I could tell you, boss, and I possess the capacity—’’  
  
‘‘I swear to God I’m going to cut any and every communication between you and Vision because if this is the stuff you learn from him…’’ Tony threatens.  
  
Tony huffs a breath and shakes his head in disbelief and even a bit of amusement because what is his life even. His own creations conspiring against him.  
  
‘‘Oh no, no. You two don’t get to act all innocent. U, get out of there!’’ Butterfingers and U are trying to make their way to the farther corner of the workshop and U’s somehow got himself tangled on some cables. Tony lets out a breath and leans against the glass doors, arms crossed and his head resting on one hand. ‘‘Okay, Fry, explain how this happened. It was Pepper, right?’’  
  
There’s a short silence and then, when the A.I.’s programming can’t let her lie to her own creator, F.R.I.D.A.Y. spills the beans. ‘‘Yesterday morning, Ms. Potts got in contact with my servers and used one of her override codes to give an order—’’  
  
‘‘That’s impossible when I explicitly—’’ Tony interrupts, annoyed.  
  
‘‘—that involved your own welfare, which is my number one priority.’’  
  
The engineer snorts in disbelief. ‘‘Okay. Right. What was her argument, then?’’  
  
‘‘That you may forget about your body’s requirement to ingest nutrients for your survival.’’ This makes Tony snort once again, his eyes wide with incredulity and mouth hanging open. ‘‘It was a sound logic, boss. According to the data I have gathered in the last—’’  
  
‘‘No, no, no!’’ Tony gives himself a mental shake and waves his arms in the air, pacing up and down. ‘‘God, this is unbelievable! That’s why Butterfingers and U weren’t here yesterday?’’  
  
‘‘I passed the command to U but he got stuck and I had to send Butterfingers to assist him,’’ she explains.  
  
‘‘God. Is there anyone I can trust?’’ Tony asks the empty lab, exasperated and feeling all the hours of lost sleep weighing him down like a sodden blanket.  
  
‘‘I only make the choices that are best for you, boss.’’  
  
Tony is about to start a completely different discussion when his hand scraps against the wall and the pain resurfaces.  
  
‘‘Well, mission accomplished,’’ he says, voice drained from the previous irritation, leaving him feeling hollow. Giving a last lingering look at the lab, Tony steps out of his safe space turned self-imposed prison cell.  
  
Tony’s so focused on the shadows and the dark corners, looking for anybody, tension rolling out of his body in waves, that he doesn’t notice where his socked feet are taking him until he’s in front of the closed door of Wanda’s room. He grunts, shutting his eyes tightly and rubbing one of his stubbled cheeks.  
  
‘‘Oh, come on…’’ he mumbles to himself. ‘‘Let’s not make this a pattern.’’  
  
It’s not like he’s been touring the compound one room at a time almost every night for months, staying frozen at the threshold with eyes unfocused and thoughts sailing in a sea of memories. No. Never. That would be too pathetic and humiliating.  
  
Tony’s definitely going to have to delete some footage from F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s servers.  
  
The kitchen, he had to go to the kitchen to get the ointment and then he’ll… probably go back to the workshop and maybe sleep. It’s a big maybe, though.  
  
Silently, Tony heads in the opposite direction. When he finally gets to the kitchen area and _thoroughly_ makes sure there’s no one else present, he makes his way to one of the cupboards. He hasn’t turned any lights on and is as silent as possible, not wanting to draw any attention if someone happens to be nearby. But it looks like his muddled brain hasn’t thought about the possibility of someone being in the rec area.  
  
‘‘Sit over here with me, stop standing at parade rest,’’ he hears Steve’s voice say in a quiet tone that still carries through to where Tony is. Well, his body is definitely standing on the tile floor, but inside his head, there is only static _(no no no no.)_  
  
There’s a single grunt as a reply; a negative.  
  
‘‘Buck, come on. Please, sit with me.’’ No answer but there must be some kind of silent conversation going on because Steve says, ‘‘Look, I know how you feel about being here—hey, don’t give me that look, pal, I’m a man out of time, too, and—’’  
  
‘‘You haven’t killed anyone’s parents, Steve,’’ are Barnes’ first words and Tony perceives something twisting inside his stomach when he hears the gruff voice, ‘‘and they haven’t offered you their own home as shelter as if… I don’t know but this isn’t normal—why would he allow me to be here if he hates me?’’  
  
Tony is still facing one of the kitchen countertops but even so, he can picture—like some kind of memory—the half smile on Steve’s face when he huffs out a breath.  
  
He can hear the men’s voices but Tony’s starting to feel miles away, only the strong and fast beat of his heart keeping him in the present (some little corner of his mind wonders if they can hear the violent pounding against his chest.) Like a dog tugging at its leash in a different direction than its owner. Smart idea, certainly.  
  
‘‘That’s how Tony is.’’ More silent conversation. ‘‘Look, the media—I don’t know if you’ve heard what they say about him on TV or the magazines but it’s all lies. All of it.’’  
  
‘‘I haven’t. You know I haven’t really had time for that,’’ Barnes says, sounding less annoyed and more interested.  
  
Tony has the desire to simultaneously flee and get closer to the words, to who are voicing them. He hates himself for feeling anxious when waiting for Steve’s words regarding him, and at the same time, he hates what’s coming out of his mouth because, once again, he’s saying everything too late.  
  
Tony’s still unmoving on the same spot, shallow breath scraping against his dry throat.  
  
‘‘You remember Howard Stark?’’ Steve goes on and Tony feels intense fright gripping his throat tight. A child’s fear coming back to him in waves, from the past, as if he’s just heard Howard calling him to his studio, voice thick and slurring with promises.  
  
Steve didn’t use to talk to Tony about his deceased father, something he’s always been grateful for, mostly because he doesn’t treasure many good memories, partly because he doesn’t want Steve to find out about how his friend Howard was an alcoholic and _kind of_ a not really great dad.  
  
(And then there’s the little chunk of his mind that _fears_ Steve will still respect Howard even after knowing how much he fucked Tony up. Maybe he would consider Howard’s actions regarding Tony completely justified and logical. Necessary, even.)  
  
‘‘The guy who helped turn you into a lab rat?’’ Under the heavy layer of sarcasm, Tony can hear a menacing tone. Howard hadn’t talked that much about Sargent Barnes, but Tony had always thought they had been on good terms, maybe even respected each other. Once again, the man on his couch isn’t the same that fell from a train on the 1940s.  
  
‘‘Yes, Buck, he was the scientist that helped to get rid of all my illnesses and therefore save your life in Austria,’’ Steve strikes back with the same thick sarcasm. Barnes huffs something almost resembling a laugh. ‘‘They may be father and son but they’re very different.’’  
  
Tony wants to stop him from speaking any further; he doesn’t want to hear what he has to say about the laundry list of flaws Steve has found in him but—  
  
‘‘I’m just telling you,’’ Steve cuts Tony’s train of thought, ‘‘because I remember how much Howard used to annoy you.’’ He almost doesn’t catch Barnes’ next huff of air over the interrogation that’s popped up in his mind. Tony’s starting to get that he’s not that talkative. ‘‘They’re really different, that’s the only thing I wanted to say.’’  
  
‘‘I kinda noticed that, Steve,’’ Barnes finally deigns to say. Tony takes a careful step forward until he can recline against the countertop, feeling like he’s been doing one swimming lap after another for hours. ‘‘In Siberia, before… before the recording, I could observe a lot of differences between them.’’ Steve lets out an agreeing hum. ‘‘So don’t worry about me doing… whatever you think I will do—primarily because I’m the murderer of his parents so I’m pretty sure Stark will do everything in his power to avoid me.’’  
  
_So much for that._  
  
‘‘Yeah, well,’’ the grimace in Steve’s face is somehow clear in his voice.  
  
Silence falls and Tony rests more of his weight against the counter, self-conscious of every one of his movements and the muffled sounds his socked feet make when he slips slightly on the smooth floor.  
  
‘‘How’s your back?’’ Steve suddenly asks.  
  
Tony is pretty sure by now that they can’t see or hear him, not while he doesn’t move from here.  
  
‘‘Fine,’’ is Barnes’ short answer.  
  
‘‘Yeah? And your shoulder?’’ Steve goes on, eyeing Barnes’ body like he can see if there’s an injury or anything wrong. When did he get this close to be able to see them? He’s lucky there’s this much distance between each area and they’re facing the opposite direction. Really, why the fuck is he like this?  
  
‘‘Fine, too.’’ Just as simple as the first one.  
  
They haven’t noticed him and Tony’s heart rate has slowed down. Or at least it seems that way—he can still hear the rushing in his ears, even if he’s unconsciously trying to overhear the conversation taking place feet away from him, and when there’s a loud voice in his head that’s been ordering him for the last ten minutes to get out of here, _pronto_.  
  
‘‘Your neck? Your che—’’ he presses on and Tony doesn’t understand how Steve isn’t aware Barnes is not up to this specific conversation. Or maybe he’s noticed but is willing to push.  
  
‘‘Steve, c’mon,’’ Barnes draws out, face heavenwards, staring at the dark ceiling.  
  
It doesn’t look like Steve’s catching on to Barnes’ annoyance and draws even closer to him on the couch, which Tony thinks is almost impossible unless he gets on his lap, which _please no_.  
  
_Is this how friends behaved on the Paleolithic? People can get the wrong—_  
  
‘‘I can give you a massage.’’  
  
Tony blinks slowly, hoping he hasn’t heard right. _Excuse me?_  
  
‘‘Yeah?’’ Is that challenge he’s hearing in his voice? ‘‘You gonna fetch the baby oil and give me a rubdown in the Avengers compound, Rogers?’’  
  
‘‘Buck, you were in the middle of your physical therapy when—’’  
  
Tony is aware of taking one step forward, closer, but can’t change that. His frown is deepening with each sentence and look they’re giving each other, and his brain feels like it’s trying to solve a really easy problem but _can’t_.  
  
‘‘Steve, come on,’’ the fucking _Winter Soldier_ whines, interrupting Steve. (His brain is still too focused on that unsolved problem and doesn’t remind him that the man sitting on his couch isn’t the HYDRA assassin.) ‘‘Stop. You know I wasn’t going to let you come alone.’’  
  
‘‘I wasn’t alone,’’ Steve corrects him. Barnes’ eyes are boring on his left temple and Tony is pretty sure he _knows_ what that look is trying to convey: ‘‘You’re insufferable.’’ Steve is obviously ignoring him on purpose. If Tony wasn’t still freaking out on some level, he would have a thought or two about what a great idea this is for a sitcom.  
  
‘‘Look, Steve…’’ Tony doesn’t know the guy that much but he definitely knows a tone for confessing some heavy stuff when he hears it. Steve turns his head and fixes his eyes on Barnes with an intensity Tony considers unnecessary.  
  
‘‘When T’Challa informed us about the aliens…’’ Barnes starts and Tony feels like pulling his hair out. _I_ definitely _don’t want to hear this._ ‘‘I…’’  
  
Barnes grunts with obvious frustration. After a shake of his head and something that Tony interprets as a muttered ‘fuck’, he says, ‘‘I thought the universe was trying to separate us again. I know how it sounds, I know, but that’s why I couldn’t _not_ come with you.’’  
  
Apart from the churning of his stomach, Tony has only one thought and it is about how wrong this is. But he can’t even move, the exit too far away and two supersoldiers too close for him to not be noticed. There is a chance of him leaving without being noticed but he’s witnessed too much and doesn’t even want to imagine himself in a situation where he gets caught.  
  
Silence follows. It’s not a heavy and charged silence but the companionable and familiar one. It feels like the two of them are in their own little world with its own rules and Tony’s intruded into it.  
  
‘‘I’m giving you a massage, later. With essential oil,’’ Steve states, his tone not leaving space for Barnes to say no.  
  
There are already drops of sweat rolling down Tony’s back.  
  
‘‘You brought essential oils?!’’ Barnes asks, his tone raising with disbelief and previous uncertainty forgotten.  
  
It’s all Tony’s brain needs to reboot. It should be enough to make him get his head out of his ass and get moving, get _out_ of here as fast as possible, everything else be fucked. If not for himself, for the two men having a private conversation he’s actively been eavesdropping on for a while now.  
  
But he just… he can’t. There’s a sudden stubbornness that has risen in his chest. Of course he doesn’t want to face a situation where he has to explain why the hell he’s been in the kitchen and hasn’t made his presence known, but there’s something else. He is tired of pretending and of trying to lie to his own self. He wants… he just wants to hear someone talking, not even to be part of the conversation, just to share the same space even if he’s not noticed. He misses Steve’s voice, Clint’s barks of throaty laugh, Natasha’s half smiles—misses sitting on a couch and soaking in their conversations, _even_ when he acts like he’s not paying them any attention.  
  
He loved watching them, just absorbing, soaking in their presence. It used to calm him, knowing he had his own people.  
  
These aren’t his people but, well, _it is_ his compound, so… every space is his. That must mean something, right? Right.  
  
(Fuck, he’s a goddamn mess.)  
  
‘‘So you’re telling me you didn’t pack any clothes—’’  
  
‘‘There wasn’t any time.’’  
  
‘‘— _and_ I have to wear your fucking old man pajamas, but you had time to take Wakandan essential oils?’’ Barnes says with an expression of comical disbelief that Tony doubts isn’t trying to hide some of the man’s amazement. He would never have thought that gravelly voice could reach such high notes.  
  
A beat passes.  
  
Tony’s given up by now—unless for tonight—so he doesn’t feel that bad when a tired smirk appears on his lips. For now, there isn’t any self-loathing, nor disgust. He can’t always be angry and scared of what’s going to happen next. He… he doesn’t deserve to feel like that.  
  
Right?  
  
It’s like, just minutes after he’s had his dose of companionship, he yearns for another one.  
  
His eyes land on what he can see of the pajamas, which is only the top half: it consists of an awful plaid orange shirt. Steve’s bottomed it all the way up.  
  
_When did you turn into a lumberjack, Rogers? Your possum family is definitely not staying at my compound._  
  
Tony’s feeling detached from his own body as well as his surroundings, but only enough to feel _light_ —not that different from downing a couple of drinks. Nothing to worry about, for now.  
  
‘‘I took only one. Sandalwood oil. And I think it’s imported.’’ Steve’s tone is deliberately casual but Tony can tell that he’s being a little shit. And that’s… weird.  
  
Tony knows the Captain isn’t the saint the world has been making him since he offered himself as a guinea pig, but he’s never seen him act like _this_. Joking around while lounging on the couch and giving shit to his friend.  
  
More than ever, Tony feels like he’s never really gotten to know Steve Rogers. He has tried, that’s for sure. Before the Accords, Tony would call Steve sometimes, see how he’s doing, and they would talk about their week, about the last thing Steve’s discovered about the new century, and what’s Tony’s last crazy invention. Tony would eventually get to the point where he would ask Steve to visit the tower. Sometimes, Steve would accept; most of them he would have a poorly just-made excuse to not come.  
  
‘‘You’re unbelievable.’’ There’s so much affection in those two words that Tony feels like a total douche for having overheard them without permission. And uncomfortable—he absolutely feels uncomfortable for some reason.  
  
It’s then that Steve reaches a hand between them and catches Barnes’ human one. They look each other in the eye with such intensity that _oh God the Winter Soldier is about to melt onto my couch_. It’s like watching a train wreck but he can’t tear his eyes away from what’s happening in front of him.  
  
Tony observes, like in slow motion, Steve raise to his lips the hand he’s cradling with true reverence between his own and places a gentle kiss on Barnes’ knuckles. Tony’s pretty sure he’s never witnessed such tenderness pouring out of a man who looks like he can rip you in half with his bare hands—he’s referring to the both of them.  
  
The moment Steve tucks his face in the curve of Barnes’ neck and lays another tender kiss there, getting out a peaceful breath, Tony’s only thought is: ‘‘Oh. Okay… that makes sense.’’  
  
Tony’s face is burning because, ok, yeah, this is a fucking intimate moment and he feels like a fucking voyeur. _Goddammit_. He’s taking one careful step back, ignoring the sudden vise gripping something inside him, when Barnes’ tentative voice breaks the silence. ‘‘Steve…’’  
  
_I swear I’m going to K.O. myself if Barnes confesses his undying love._  
  
‘‘Yeah?’’ Fuck, Steve sound breathless.  
  
_Shut up, the two of you!_ At least he can scream in his own mind. _I don’t want to hear this. I don’t, I don’t…_  
  
Tony takes another step back, a squeak from the floor when he moves his foot the wrong way. Steve and Barnes appear not to notice, too wrapped up in each other.  
  
‘‘I want you to know that…’’ Barnes starts but ducks his head.  
  
_Please don’t make me hear this. Please_ , Tony begs to whatever deity is listening.  
  
He’s never had something like this and right now being reminded of that is just cruel. He’s hanging by a threat.  
  
‘‘Yeah? What?’’ Steve asks like a golden retriever whose human friend has just come back from the war.  
  
‘‘There’s…’’ A pause. ‘‘…some green in the blue of your eyes.’’  
  
The silence that follows is heavy and pregnant, like the calm before the storm. Tony blinks once, twice, frozen in place, just like Steve, who’s looking at Barnes with incredulous eyes.  
  
‘‘Jesus!’’ he finally burst out. Perfect timing because it’s the exact moment Tony releases a loud snort overflowing with hysteria ( _This is so much worse._ ) He takes one step after another until he’s behind the kitchen island, one hand braced against the marble and the other clapped over his mouth. ‘‘Fuck you, Buck!’’  
  
Barnes barks a laugh even when Steve pushes him with enough force that he ends up sprawled across the couch, legs on Steve's lap, laughing his ass off.  
  
_Steven, you’re not fooling anyone. That on your face is not a glare; you’re practically making love to the guy with those heart-eyes Jesus fuck please not on the couch!_  
  
‘‘Oh, come here, you sap,’’ Barnes says between peals of laughter, his raised arms the only part of his body Tony can see. Steve crosses his arms but the vexed expression crumbles in a matter of seconds and he just lets himself fall on top of the other man, an ‘‘oomph’’ resonating in the large space.  
  
Tony takes another step in the direction of the door that will lead him to the elevator, realizing this is the best chance he has to make an exit without being noticed—especially now that he’s certain he can hear the sound of _kissing_.  
  
_I'm never getting out of the lab._  
  
How the fuck are things getting weirder?  
  
Tony is still walking backward, mind still reeling, when there’s a sudden burst of light. His back collides with something hard. Tony knows it is a body but he’s shut tightly his eyes, wishing for this to be just a bad and extremely embarrassing dream.  
  
‘‘Stark,’’ says Clint when Tony turns around to face him. His face is slightly shocked but he schools his expression in less than a second.  
  
The archer’s eyes travel to some point behind Tony and he doesn’t even want to know the expression that must be shown in the two supersoldier’s faces. Disgust would be too merciful.  
  
‘‘Eavesdropping?’’ Clint says with a knowing look and a sharp smirk, even though Tony is still able to see the surprise underneath. There’s no way Barnes and Steve haven’t heard.  
  
He chances a look at the rec room, where he finds the two of them looking at him with matching frowns, both still on the couch but their torsos turned so they can stare uncomfortably at him.  
  
‘‘Um.’’ Tony clears his throat, deciding that facing Clint is a tiny bit easier than the two lovebirds that must think they’ve been spied on—which isn’t that much further from the truth. ‘‘You wanted to talk?’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHERE ARE MY STUCKY SHIPPERS!!
> 
> This is probably the last chapter until after August. I’m traveling to my country for the summer and I’m not taking my laptop with me. I’ll probably keep writing on paper, though. Maybe I’ll try to post something somehow. It’s a big maybe.
> 
> You guys have no idea how much I loved writing this Stucky fluff NO IDEA. I had the bones of the scene already written (that expression probably doesn’t exist but bah the English language can recover from it) when I hadn’t even started chapter 5!! I finished it at 4 in the morning bc agghhh I wanted to write and write and… THESE BOYS DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER!!
> 
> I love the fluff, yet I feel like this chapter could be so much better.
> 
> Anyhow, FEED ME MORE COMMENTS PLEASE. Thank you.
> 
> Hey btw have you guy listened to Seasick Steve’s song Walkin Man? For some reason it reminds me of Stucky a lot.
> 
> Here you have the lyrics:
> 
> You say jump, I say how high  
> Exactly you want me to jump to  
> And you say walk, I will walk  
> To the end of the line and back to you
> 
> My name is Steve and I'm your walking man  
> Yes, I am
> 
> You say boy, do you really love me?  
> Well, I ain't got much words to say  
> Let me write my answer  
> Down in the sand by the waves
> 
> My name is Steve and I'm your riding man  
> Yes, I am  
> My name is Steve and I'm your walking man  
> Yes, I am
> 
> If you want me to stay  
> I'll stash my sleeping roll under your bed  
> That says more than anything  
> In my life I ever said
> 
> My name is Steve and I'm your staying man  
> Yes, I am  
> My name is Steve and I'm your riding man  
> Yes, I am  
> My name is Steve and I'm your walking man  
> Yes, I am


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew I made it! Tomorrow I’m travelling so I tried to write at least one more chapter before spending a whole month without posting.
> 
> Fun fact about me that you don't need or have asked for: in school they had to put a limit to the words we could write when they gave us assignments or essays because I would always go overboard.
> 
> I’m actually pretty proud of that achievement; I always asked ‘‘Is there a word limit?’’ and the teachers thought I was joking or maybe didn’t expect to have so much to read after :)))
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading!!

Steve isn’t one of the most emotionally demonstrative guys, he knows this, and, yes, he also knows what ‘toxic masculinity’ means—Natasha explained it to him once, probably when she got fed up with his bullshit.  
  
He grew up during the Depression so there was no time or place for whining about how hard it is to be small and sick all the time. His father had died during the Great War, leaving him and his mother alone, and while Sarah had been one of the strongest people there was, stubborn until her last breath, tuberculosis took her from Steve’s side, too. He doesn’t remember crying more than some tears when it happened.  
  
Project Rebirth followed after Bucky’s departure to the battlefields and Steve got rid of the prison his sick body had been since 1918, getting himself turned into a beefy USO girl. ( _He wore tights_ , for Christ’s sake.) He endured being a dancing monkey since it was all he could do to help during the war. Or so he thought at first.  
  
Saving Bucky was next, a deed that turned him into a ‘‘Captain’’. Then the Howling Commandos were formed and, apparently, everything else is in the history books. Bucky fell, Steve tried to drink himself to oblivion, and finally crashed the Valkyrie into the Arctic. Probably not the best of coping mechanisms there are.  
  
It turned out that he hadn’t died but napped for some good 70 years. They found, thawed, and threw him in a new and unfamiliar world where he suddenly had to fill the shoes of _Captain America_ , a fucking legend forged after his death and that grew bigger and more fantastical with every decade. And all this just to fight the same shit he had given his life for in the '40s. And he did it all over again.  
  
He found some great people in the new century, fought some battles, saved some cities, killed some _aliens_ , discovered Snapchat… And thought for a really long time that there wasn’t any place for him outside of fighting or warring. He didn’t talk about it outside of therapy, something that didn’t last long anyway.  
  
What Steve’s mind is trying to explain is how the last decades (the ones he’s really lived, at least) are just a blur for him; come and gone and left behind a crushing weight on his shoulders and lead in his insides, lugging him down. No time to think, to untie the knot his life’s turned into. To just look at the mess and try and sort it out. Because he’s had to learn about this new world, he’s had to be Captain fucking America and for that he’s had to forget about Steve Rogers, just like everyone else did when the plane crashed.  
  
After some years, Steve started losing hope about getting some pieces of his _old_ life back, of making people see that the guy from those ridiculous comics wasn’t him, that he didn’t even _exist_. The Avengers had been like a breath of fresh air and Sam Wilson a bucket of cold water when he had needed them the most. And still he wasn’t Steve Rogers; still, no one saw _all_ of him. Maybe it was impossible for them—it’s not like Steve blames any one of them for how he feels.  
  
But now, being _here_ , bracketed by Bucky’s thighs, lying on top of him like he weights nothing just like _before_ … it’s like some hope has been restored. He’s hopeful for himself, that he has a chance to be seen again. To be stripped of the Captain America mantle just for a moment, enough to take a deep breath. To get out of this life and build one that won’t be ruled by violence and conflict anymore.  
  
Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, holding him tight, are finally giving Steve that feeling he’s been longing for the past weeks—for the entirety of this new life, even, something he’s been feeling under the surface for such a long time, that it had finally become a part of him.  
  
He’s been waiting for the moment when he’s just Steve Rogers, a 90 pounds boy from Brooklyn. It’s not that he misses all his ailments, but usually he associates that body with a simpler life, a body that only needed to be near Bucky’s larger one to start feeling safe again. That he belongs.  
  
When they’re like this, in each other’s arms, the world fades behind a thick woolen curtain. Everything else is left behind for the moment, the nightmares and the preoccupations that keep them awake at night, the future that’s changed not only the world but the both of them, _deeply_. And they can pretend they’re still in their little apartment in Brooklyn, taking a nap before Bucky has to go to one of his jobs—and they can still pretend they’re their old selves.  
  
Steve squirms in Bucky’s grip—who only tightens it—until he can burrow his face firmly in his neck. He inhales greedily and smiles when it’s only Bucky surrounding him. And it’s him, the Bucky from the '40s, the Bucky from the '30s, the Bucky from that first day they met. It’s the Bucky with the metal arm in the Helicarrier trying to kill him; the one saving him from the Potomac. It’s his apartment in Romania. It’s a one-hundred-year-old Bucky gone to Hell and made his way back. Back to him.  
  
He finds himself mouthing at the skin under his Adam’s apple and feels Bucky’s hand move to his hair, tangling his flesh fingers in his locks and scratching his scalp. Steve hums in approval and traces a path of gentle kisses until his lips are hovering over Bucky’s metal shoulder. He gets a hand under the shirt—the first three buttons already undone—and shifts the cloth so he can observe the scaring. Bucky’s body stiffens under him but Steve knows that if he needed him to stop, he would make him know.  
  
Steve studies the irritated scaring around the metal with an unreadable expression, deceptively casual, feeling Bucky’s attentive eyes on him. Then, slowly, he raises his right hand and rests his fingers over the five more visible lines of scarring. They fit. He feels Bucky deflate under him, the air in his lungs leaving him in a shaky exhale.  
  
‘‘Steve…’’ he starts with a quiet voice.  
  
He already knows what Bucky’s about to say so Steve just kisses the sensitive skin, feeling the man shiver under him. He then rests his head on his chest, happy to hear the heartbeat, and slips his hands under the shirt, feeling the hot skin under them. Bucky still has one hand in his hair, stroking his scalp, and this feels too good to be real, like a dream he’s never dared to even think could someday come true.  
  
It's then that Steve feels Bucky’s body tense once again. He opens his eyes with a frown and sees, too, the faint light coming from behind the couch, probably from the kitchen area. In unison, the two of them sit up and look over the back of the couch. For a second, Steve thinks he’s seeing things, but then Clint confirms what’s before his eyes isn’t a figment of his imagination caused by exhaustion.  
  
He’s about to call out Tony’s name when Clint’s voice makes him reel back. ‘‘Eavesdropping?’’  
  
Steve feels Bucky tense up as if it’s happening to his own body—which, yeah, he’s actually gone rigid, too, the seams of the old shirt straining against his skin.  
  
Steve’s not ashamed of his relationship with Bucky (a developing one, mind you, since they’re still figuring their shit out) and neither is Buck, he knows that for a fact. But they haven’t told anything to the team or anyone else—primarily because is their own business and nobody else’s and it’s _not_ that important. No one knows… except for Shuri, considering the knowing look she gave them the last time the two men were together in a room with her.  
  
It had been the day Bucky was brought out of cryostasis—just three months ago—when his mind had finally been freed from HYDRA’s programming. Steve remembers how he tried to keep his hands to himself and keep the impassive expression on, but, for once, he hadn’t had the willpower. At first, he had only helped the scientists move Buck out of the cryo-chamber, but after just a moment he had to brush them off, feeling something twist painfully in his insides when so many people were handling the body of his friend. They were professional and attentive, yes, but the scene had reminded Steve too much of the few recordings of the Winter Soldier he had forced himself to watch.  
  
At that moment, after dismissing the other scientist, Princess Shuri had regarded him with a pensive look that hadn’t lasted longer than a couple of seconds since she’d had more important things to do than watch Steve’s sorry ass. Bucky had woken up and Steve hadn’t even given the man a second to orient himself before he’d just thrown himself at him. Bucky hadn’t reciprocated the gesture at first, standing stock still but docile (in hindsight, Bucky had probably thought he was with HYDRA, so Steve would rather not think too much about that), giving Steve five whole seconds to thinks about how he’d fucked up big time, how he couldn’t do this kind of shit, even less in front of people, showing himself needy and with so little self-control.  
  
And for a moment that felt like going back in time; Steve feeling scared displaying his emotions so freely. It’s not that in the '30s men didn’t hug, but Steve had always thought that people could see the _difference_ , that they would notice how Steve touched Bucky a lot differently than other male friends, putting too much care, his hands lingering longer than necessary and his shoulders subtly slumping when the contact was withdrawn.  
  
All that had disappeared without leaving a trace when Bucky had exhaled a cool breath and pressed his freezing nose against Steve’s neck. Bucky hadn’t hugged back, his arm limp at his side, nor said a word, not even when a scientist had tried to ask him some questions. Steve had helped him sit down and when Bucky had finally mustered the strength to raise his arm, he hadn’t let go of him. Steve had asked if they could give them a moment and the scientists did so without objections. Before Shuri had finally closed the door behind her, she had thrown him that knowing look over her shoulder and told him to call her if they needed anything.  
  
‘‘Um.’’ Steve hears Tony clear his throat, cutting into his memories. ‘‘You wanted to talk?’’  
  
Bucky shifts uneasily at his side and Steve instinctively gets up and positions himself between the couch and the other two. Clint is looking between Tony and Steve like he’s in a tennis match, whereas Tony is doing that tapping thing against his chest he used to do when he still had the arc reactor, which cues Steve into his nervousness. Maybe he’s been staring too intently because Tony scowls at him and immediately stops the movement, drawing his hands behind his back.  
  
Even so, Steve can’t help but look carefully at the man before him: Tony is obviously tense and has one foot behind the other, his body tilted toward the door like he’s going to try and make a run for it. Steve decides to step back and show himself as unthreatening as possible, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head, keeping his hands at his sides. This should not feel like trying to appease a scared animal. (Is this how Bucky feels when dealing with him sometimes?)  
  
Clint snorts without any tact, regarding Tony with a smirk, and Steve already feels his hackles rise and takes an abrupt step in the archer’s direction. It isn’t a good decision because Tony takes one step back and, really, this dance is getting ridiculous. Steve is about to say as much—with different words, though—when Tony beats him to it. ‘‘We better do this somewhere else.’’  
  
Steve would agree but he realizes he isn’t included in that ‘‘we.’’ ‘‘Wherever you prefer, Tony,’’ he says, either way, his tone challenging and his eyes not leaving Tony’s, whose lips have turned in a flat, white line. His hands twitch at his side like he wants to do something with them but is not allowing himself.  
  
Steve knows Tony wants to tell him he’s not coming—it’s clear in his face and mien—but instantly sees the fight leave him. Tony nods his head once, resigned, and stalks out of the kitchen with his back visibly rigid under his tattered t-shirt.  
  
The three of them are following him when Tony suddenly takes a look at them over his shoulder and stops in his tracks. ‘‘He’s not coming,’’ Tony orders when he turns. Steve glowers at him, knowing he’s referring to Bucky.  
  
‘‘He definitely _is_ ,’’ Steve says in turn, his words hard as stone. They’re facing each other now, mere feet separating them, neither giving an inch. Steve doesn’t want things to go downhill—he’s actually spent all day and night pondering what to say, how to make things better. But, once again, when it comes to Bucky, his response is always more of a base instinct than a well-thought-out decision.  
  
‘‘This is my compound, Rogers,’’ Tony states between gritted teeth and Steve feels like the man wants to say something more scalding.  
  
‘‘If you want us to pack and go, you just have to say the word.’’ It’s like watching himself from someone else’s eyes; he wants to shut up but Tony’s always been able to push all his buttons. Steve knows his words accompanied by the antagonistic tone are only making things worse but, again, his body and mind always have some fierce reaction when Tony is involved.  
  
Said man is already parting his lips to voice his comeback, when suddenly there’s a hand on Steve’s arm, pulling him in the opposite direction. Steve can see in Tony’s face the same expression his own features must be mirroring; for a moment they had forgotten they weren’t alone. Steve turns on his heels, irritated, and finds himself face to face with a scowling Bucky.  
  
‘‘I won’t go.’’ Steve blinks, needing a second or two to be sure he’s heard right. Bucky knows he’s about to protest so he cuts Steve off before he can even make his tongue work. ‘‘You’ll discuss with Stark whatever needs to be discussed and meanwhile, I’ll find Natasha and—’’  
  
‘‘Or Sam,’’ he blurts, still feeling confused.  
  
‘‘What?’’ Bucky asks, clearly confounded by the interruption. Maybe he was expecting Steve to protest.  
  
Steve smiles, taking one more step further from Clint and Tony, and closer to Bucky. He lowers his voice when he continues. ‘‘You two could just drop the act; I’m pretty sure everyone knows you don’t hate each other.’’ Bucky huffs an irritated breath but Steve doesn’t lose his half-smile. ‘‘Buck, come on, he visited you when I couldn’t and T’Challa informed him weekly of your condition.’’  
  
“Steve,” Bucky starts with the tone he would use if Steve was a child and he has to explain something really simple to him, “he did that for you.”  
  
Steve scoffs but decides now it’s not the time for this. Even so, he can’t stop himself from saying, ‘‘Whatever you say, Buck.’’ Bucky opens his mouth ready to reply but Steve doesn’t give him the chance. ‘‘Okay, you don’t have to come.’’ Bucky looks like he’s kinda pissed he didn’t get to say the last word and Steve tries not to laugh.  
  
He looks back at Tony and Clint, who are awkwardly standing three feet away from each other. Tony has his arms crossed and is scowling, probably because he can feel Clint’s eyes boring into his skull. Clint’s smirking and Steve can’t understand what he’s trying to do, why he’s trying to make things worse. Tony is doing a great job at ignoring him.  
  
Steve sighs with resignation, sorry that he can’t spend more time with Bucky. Not feeling comfortable in front of other people, Steve regards Bucky with an apologetic smile and, making sure that no one can see it, he takes his hand and entwines their fingers, squeezing lightly. When he’s finally moving in the opposite direction Bucky has to head to, Steve feels the feather-like brush of Bucky’s fingers against his wrist, letting him know he doesn’t like it either that their time together has been cut short.  
  
Steve squares his shoulders like he’s about to face a court martial and doesn’t let himself indulge in the need to watch Bucky for three more seconds. With an unreadable expression, Steve marches after Tony, who has already started walking without saying anything.  
  
‘‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., tell Romanov and Wilson to go to the debriefing room,’’ Tony says.  
  
In less than two minutes, they’re already there. Tony sits on one of the chairs and doesn’t waste any time and gets his phone out. Steve lets out a mild sight and thinks about how he should go and change into his suit, or at least put some shoes on, but there is no time. He has the feeling that if he gets out just for a minute, Tony will take the opportunity and bolt.  
  
One more minute passes but it feels like it stretches into eternity. The atmosphere is so charged, Steve can feel it in his throat. Clint is still sending dirty looks at Tony, and Tony is still putting a lot of effort in acting like they’re not in the same room. And this makes Steve frown with annoyance because they’re supposed to _communicate_ , to find a solution to the elephant in the room. But Tony is _playing games_ on his phone.  
  
‘‘We came because—’’ Steve decides to break the silence while they wait for Natasha and Sam.  
  
‘‘T’Challa sent you, yeah, I guessed that much,’’ Tony cuts him off without lifting his eyes from the screen, his feet propped on the table. Steve opens his mouth to add something, but it appears Tony catches on it and isn’t about to let him say anything else. ‘‘And you’ve been given full pardon.’’ Tony finally looks at him with something like mock in his eyes but Steve can see the sharp edges of the expression. ‘‘I’ve talked with T’Challa. Some people do like me, you know?’’ And then he turns to his phone again, the expression about to fall to pieces, Steve can see that much.  
  
‘‘Tony Stark playing the victim,’’ Clint says with a sneer, ‘‘call the press.’’  
  
‘‘Oh, so you’re the one who’s been feeding bullshit to the Fox these last months?’’ Tony says without wasting a second. It’s obvious that he’s trying for his words to come across as flippant but it’s not working that well because of his bone-tired face, pale and paper-thin looking skin, dark circles and eyes red and watery. ‘‘Oh, no, that can’t be it, what with you being a war criminal and then expatriated from your country.’’ Tony lifts slowly his head and directs a triumphant smirk at Clint, whose arms are still crossed but his fists are clenched, turned bone-white.  
  
Clint tightens his jaw, his eyes becoming slits. Steve is about to intervene when the expression full of anger and abhorrence changes into a sweet smile that could poison someone. ‘‘Bullshit, huh? I don’t know, _Tony_ , some of those things were pretty true.’’  
  
‘‘Were they, now?’’ Tony asks, getting back to his phone. He almost accomplishes to look bored, but there’s a muscle twitching in his chaw. Steve wants to put an end to this childish scene but they’re adults so as long as they don’t start punching each other, they can carry on.  
  
‘‘Yeah,’’ Clint continues, eying him from the opposite side of the table, and takes one step forward. ‘‘I think they got some things right, like the ‘egomaniac who was ready to sell the freedom of his teammates just to prove he’s right.’’’ Tony doesn’t say anything but he looks sickly pale now, to Steve’s concern. He’s too focused on Tony’s face and doesn’t notice that Clint isn’t finished yet. ‘‘Oh, yes, there was this one… What was it, Cap?’’  
  
Steve is looking at him now, lips forming a thin line. He still doesn’t understand what the archer is trying to get out of this. Maybe nothing—maybe he just wants to piss Tony off. But, no, Clint must be seeing that this is beyond pissing Tony, by now.  
  
‘‘Clint…’’ Steve’s had it and even if he doesn’t want to play the role of childminder of the group (he’s actually the younger of the team, has people realized this?), he knows this has to stop.  
  
‘‘Oh, yeah, it went something like: ‘Stark was so desperate to prove he was better than Captain America, he went to such length as to recruit a vigilante—’’’  
  
Clint doesn’t get to finish the sentence before Tony is on his feet, phone forgotten on the floor beside the overturned chair. He hasn’t crossed the distance between him and Clint, but Steve has the feeling that Tony’s trying really hard not to fling himself across the table and strangle the other man. The look on his face is fierce, reminding him of the only occasion he remembers seeing him like this: Siberia.  
  
‘‘Do not,’’ Tony says with a strained voice, enouncing each word slowly, ‘‘ _dare_ get Peter into this.’’ Tony’s not about to make any empty threats; the murderous look in his eyes enough to warn anybody about the thin ice they’re treading on.  
  
This time, the mask of mock and challenge leaves Clint’s face and lets them see with clarity the real, raw emotion behind it: there is so much anger that Steve doesn’t believe all of it is directed at Tony.  
  
Steve tries to breathe with something resembling calmness, but then he catches how Clint just leans back against the wall, and the archer’s expression changes into a predatory one. Steve’s already taking a step in his direction when Clint decides to speak up, ‘‘You have already done that yourself, Stark.’’  
  
He quickly reaches the conclusion that he shouldn’t have been circling the room to get to Clint’s side, but it’s already too late. It’s fascinating to see someone move with such speed without being a supersoldier or enhanced in some other way, but Tony needs only a second to hurl himself through the table to pounce on Clint and knock him to the ground. Before Steve can jump from one side of the table to the other, the two men are already punching each other in the face.  
  
Clint has Tony pinned down with one arm and it appears like he’s actually trying to restrain him. On the other hand, Tony looks feral, his pupils blown wild and eyes misty, as if he doesn’t know who or what he’s actually fighting. His hands are flailing wildly, every other hit striking Clint in a different part of his body. The two men are grunting with effort but Tony is almost growling, teeth bared. Clint finally gets hold of the scientist’s hands and pins them to the floor but Tony is threshing on the ground, trying to get rid of Clint.  
  
Steve kicks a chair out of his way, not caring that he’s not controlling his strength and it ends up embedded in a wall. He catches Tony muttering something but can’t make the words out. When he’s already kneeled on the floor, Tony has stopped writhing, his breaths ragged, irregular. He’s scowling up at Clint like he can’t understand what is going on. Tony takes one look a Steve and it seems like something clicks inside of him.  
  
‘‘Get off me.’’ They almost don’t catch the words, Tony’s jaw locked and making it hard to understand—his breathing is louder now that it’s coming from his nose exclusively. Clint’s looking at him with wide eyes. Steve wants to reach out and examine Tony’s bleeding hand but is scared that Tony will hurt himself even more.  
  
‘‘Clint, get up,’’ Steve commands with a voice he doesn’t understand how isn’t trembling. Tony is—from head to toe. Clint follows his order and even takes a step away from the man still sprawled on the floor.  
  
Steve hears a noise and turns to see his and Gamora’s team at the entrance door. Bucky is already making his way inside but stops in his tracks when Steve raises a hand. He turns back to Tony who is getting up—or at least trying to do so without his shaking limbs letting him fall down again. Steve gets on his feet and helps him up until Tony realizes what’s going on and smacks his arms away. Tony doesn’t even look at him when he stalks out of the debriefing room, swaying on his feet.  
  
Stupefied, Steve looks at Tony’s retreating back, who’s quickly followed by Quill. He finds Gamora, then, who’s scowling in deep thought at the scene, the gears in her brain already at work. She meets his gaze and Steve feels something cold fill his insides. He wants to explain that it’s not what it looks like, that they haven’t lured Tony in the room to _fucking beat him up_. God, this is so bad. He opens his mouth and closes it like a fish out of water, unable to come up with words, an explanation.  
  
Natasha and Sam are already inside the room. The former with all her attention on Clint; the last with a horrified expression.  
  
‘‘Woah, that’s some fucked up shit.’’ Steve lowers his head and blinks at the raccoon near him who is examining the blood on the floor. Now that he looks at it, it’s not a big amount—but it’s still Tony’s. That realization makes the liquid look brighter, somehow. ‘‘What kind of team are you that you beat one of your teammates? Two against one? Not cool, man,’’ Rocket doesn’t actually sound judgmental, something that makes the experience the more surreal.  
  
Is this _really_ real?  
  
‘‘We didn’t beat him,’’ Clint clarifies to the room. It looks like he’s taking the event in stride, even if he’s still wide-eyed, like he isn’t sure of what just happened, either. He brings one hand up to touch his face, already swelling up. ‘‘He attacked me and—’’  
  
Steve doesn’t actually feel himself move, doesn’t realize he’s walking toward the edge. He grabs Clint by the collar of his t-shirts and slams him against the wooden table. The force is just enough to make the surface groan and punch the air out of Clint’s lungs. There’s only silence after that.  
  
‘‘What the fuck were you thinking?!’’ Steve demands, almost yelling.  
  
‘‘You know I didn’t want to start a fist-fight, Cap,’’ Clint says with a stubborn expression.  
  
‘‘But you wanted to start _a_ fight!’’ He finally lets himself raise his voice. Fuck it, fuck that everyone is present for this spectacle; this conversation is overdue.  
  
Clint breathes through his nose, in and then out and then repeats the motion, like he’s getting ready for something.  
  
‘‘He doesn’t give a shit,’’ he finally spits out and Steve is able to truly see that other thing behind all that heavy anger. Clint is hurt; he’s actually hurt because Tony doesn’t care about the team anymore. Steve regards him with a disbelieving look. ‘‘I just—’’ But he doesn’t finish his sentence. It looks like it’s finally dawned on him what just happened.  
  
‘‘Don’t mention the kid,’’ are Steve’s final words to him. Clint gives a curt nod and Steve unclasps his hands from the fabric. There’s so much shit to sort out, he feels like he’s drowning just by thinking about it.  
  
He takes one step back from the man, giving him some space so he can get out, escorted by Natasha who doesn’t even look at him. He doesn’t turn to see how the others clear out, hoping that—  
  
This time, when he feels Bucky’s hand on his back, Steve doesn’t let himself relax.  
  
‘‘Steve.’’ Bucky’s voice is soothing even if Steve doesn’t want it to be because he doesn’t deserve it—if he’d seen the almost passive way Steve had treated the situation since the beginning, his inaction…  
  
Because, goddammit, he’s seen the same thing as Clint, how Tony has given up and only wants to forget about them. Allowing _Steve’s_ team to stay because he doesn’t want to deal with them. Steve had really wanted to discuss the future of the Avengers but had headed toward the debriefing room sure that Tony was going to tell them to find some other place to stay—letting them stay the night had already been too generous.  
  
And on top of that, he had been feeling resentful for being spied on for who knows how long. He and Buck don’t have a lot of time to spend together and reconnect, and to think that one of those moments he treasures so much has been—  
  
‘‘Steve, snap out of it,’’ Bucky says harshly and Steve feels himself flinch, his body leaning in the opposite direction of Bucky’s warmth. Right away, there are arms wrapping around him. ‘‘I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,’’ says the regretful voice.  
  
Steve doesn’t let himself melt against the warm skin—the skin where he belongs. Steve doesn’t let himself get lost in the smell of his childhood, the one that’s followed him to the future.  
  
‘‘Stevie, please.’’ He doesn’t know what it is that Bucky is asking of him but trying not to give it is already a lost battle.  
  
Steve lets himself be stirred out and into the hallway, tucked into Bucky’s side. His head bowed and his eyes lost in the bloody imprint on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That part where it says ‘‘Steve wants to reach out and examine Tony’s bleeding hand’’ I actually wrote ‘‘bleeding heart’’ without meaning to and that’s even more accurate :(
> 
> Steve is not okay either :(
> 
> Goddammit when are things going to get better?!
> 
> Thanks for the love you're giving this fic and I want to remind you how much I love reading and answering all your comments *wink wink*
> 
> See you in a month or so!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who I love more than life itself?

He's not aware of being inside a dream—even after so many nights and years, it still feels real. His hands on the controls, the cloudy view before his eyes, the voice in his ear. The crushing weight of his heart, burning inside of his chest. And he thinks it's over, he's done his duty, and then the ice is getting closer and closer and—  
  
It's so cold it's like something is biting at his skin all over, stabbing at it. He's drowning; water freezing in his lungs, in his stomach when he finally tries to take a breath, everything is so dark... The only thing that's left in his mind is: ‘‘God, please, tell me Bucky's death was more merciful than this.’’  
  
And suddenly, it stops.  
  
He finds himself in the Valkyrie... and in Siberia, flashes of both places superimposed. There's no water obstructing his respiratory tract, and... and Tony is under him, the Iron Man suit protecting him from the cold. But the helmet isn't on and it can't protect him from Steve himself, who is holding Tony's head under the freezing water. Tony's brown eyes are wide open, gazing at Steve from under the surface, but he isn't trying to free himself from the hands set on killing him. And they're trembling, Steve can feel them trembling, can feel all his body shaking, his stomach churning, and a layer of sweat covering his skin but here it's water and where is that voice coming from? This wasn't supposed to happen!  
  
Where is Bucky?  
_______

  


The distressed whimper is what finally wakes him up. He rolls on his side and finds Steve's face contorted with pain and anguish, one hand balled into a fist and the other gripping the blankets tightly. It's not the first time and it's far from being the last, but it still makes him deeply worried, seeing such a raw expression when Steve tries so hard to control it in front of others.  
  
‘‘Steve.’’ Bucky sits up on the bed, not touching Steve at first, but when his breathing starts being labored and the shaking disturbing, he gets closer and catches one of Steve's hands in his own. Bucky sees then Steve's sweaty face illuminated by the moon, white as a sheet, and jaw tightly clenched as if he's wounded.  
  
‘‘Steve, wake up.’’ He shakes him gently but Steve's shudders are already violently shaking his frame, his teeth chattering. ‘‘Fuck’’ he mutters under his breath, starting to feel frantic himself.  
  
Bucky gets on his knees and gets Steve on his back. Dragging the blankets out of the way, he straddles Steve's stomach, feeling the damp shirt against his bare thighs. One more time, Bucky tries to shake him out of the dream but to no avail. He places his right palm on Steve's cheek and mutters a remorseful ‘‘sorry, pal’’ before raising his hand and striking him on the face. Steve's head turns to the side and his body stills abruptly; the blow strong enough to shake him free of the dream.  
  
‘‘Steve, you with me?’’ Bucky questions when he sees Steve blink—his eyes unfocused—but Steve doesn't look at him right away. He looks at his surroundings with wide eyes, mumbling something Bucky doesn't understand. ‘‘Calm down, buddy, you're okay. We're in the Avengers Compound and it's the year two-thousand-seventeen.’’  
  
Bucky sits on his haunches, exhaling a deep breath and giving Steve some space, but not wanting to lose the skin-to-skin contact, trying to project calm and security. Steve's own breath is rattling in his chest, and for a moment a handful of memories of a skinny blonde intrude into Bucky's brain; he has to remind himself that Steve doesn't have any physical illness anymore. No need to unnecessarily fuss over Steve because he's not losing him anytime soon.  
  
Steve is still trying to say something, looking intently at Bucky, but it looks like his tongue doesn't want to collaborate. Steve tries to sit up but his hands are shaking and he ends up plopping against the pillows, looking exhausted—Bucky doesn't know if it's the dream's fault or just the fucked up state Steve actually is in but doesn't want to acknowledge.  
  
‘‘Steve, talk to me.’’ Bucky leans forward and strokes Steve's damp face, his stomach turning on itself because he's not convinced it's only sweat coating his skin. Steve then grips Bucky's arm and tries to get out of the bed as if he hasn't yet realized that there's another body on top of him. Bucky makes him lay down using his only arm, for once not so sure that having a detachable arm was such a great idea even if it helps with the pain.  
  
‘‘I need to...’’ Steve starts saying but then scrunches his face up like he's abruptly lost his train of thought. Bucky gets off of him and lies by his side, one hand under Steve's shirt, unsticking it from the hot skin. Steve then grabs the hand, the movement so sudden it startles Bucky. ‘‘Tony,’’ he pants between breaths, ‘‘I need to go back for Tony! We left him... we left him in Siberia.’’  
  
The look of utter horror in Steve's blue eyes is so intense that Bucky's own heart starts pounding in anticipation even more furiously against his chest, straightening up on the bed. Then his brain catches up with the meaning of the words and Bucky lets himself flop at the other man's side with a huff of breath, his right arm still holding Steve down. Bucky asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn the lights on and the A.I. does just that without a comment.  
  
‘‘Steve.’’ But it seems Steve isn't yet _here_ with him. Bucky forces himself up again, grunting, and makes Steve's face still so he is looking directly at Bucky and nowhere else. ‘‘Steve, snap out of it, come on. Siberia was a year ago, remember?’’ Steve looks at him with a frown, unable to wrap his head around the idea. He tries once again to get up and Bucky just gets his hand off Steve and lets himself fall forward, pinning Steve under his weight.  
  
‘‘No! I need to—Tony! I have to get to—’’  
  
‘‘Tony is safe, Stevie,’’ Bucky assures him with a gentle tone, stroking his side, the name sounding strange rolling off his tongue. ‘‘It's the year two-thousand-seventeen. We are at the Avengers Compound and... Tony is safe.’’ _And just as fucked up as us_ , he doesn't add.  
  
Steve doesn't say anything but stops struggling. Bucky can hear the strong beat of his heart and feel it under his palm. The two are sticky with sweat now but neither one bothers to change or take a shower. Well, there aren't a lot of options in regard to clothing, and Bucky sure as hell is not going to put back on those itchy old man pajamas he had to wear earlier.  
  
Bucky slides off Steve's chest, not intending to get far from his side, but it seems he hasn't made it clear enough because, without any warning, Bucky finds himself under the bulk of Steve. ‘‘Sorry, sorry, please don't go.’’ It's so wrong that Steve sounds like a kid, so lost and uncertain, and more so that Bucky knows Steve will hate himself for letting someone see him this vulnerable. Even when Steve has been learning to _let go_ , to let one person see him how he really is without the barriers he's obviously put up. At least, they're obvious to Bucky.  
  
Bucky gets his arm around Steve's shoulders and doesn't care about the sweaty strands of hair when he interweaves his fingers with them. Steve is breathing warm puffs of air against Bucky's stomach, face hidden there, and Bucky bends his legs and brackets Steve with them, knowing without needing to be told that it's something that makes his friend feel safer—he hopes that even protected. After some time, their breaths and heartbeats are finally in sync. Steve climbs Bucky's body until he can tuck his face in that place between neck and shoulder that Bucky knows is already his preferred one.  
  
‘‘Wish you had the other arm,’’ Steve croaks, his words muffled since he hasn't moved his face from Bucky's shoulder.  
  
‘‘Me too.’’  
  
A beat.  
  
‘‘I was talking about the metal one.’’ Steve's arms tighten their grip around Bucky's torso.  
  
‘‘I know,’’ Bucky answers with a soft smile, his eyes closed but still stroking Steve's hair. ‘‘You with me?’’  
  
Bucky feels Steve's body tense against his own like he's preparing for something, until Steve finally answers with a somber ‘‘yes’’, a tone already so familiar that Bucky feels like punching something. Because that's the Captain America Tone, the one Steve's had to learn in this century for the sake of a world who spent 70 years believing in a comic book character, in trading carts. Putting their hopes in a bedtime story.  
  
‘‘Don't give me that bullshit, Steve’’ Bucky snaps, not letting his friend get away from him; his thighs holding him in place as well as his flesh hand on Steve's nape. Steve wiggles in his hold and huffs an irritated breath that tickles Bucky's skin. Bucky starts kneading one of Steve's shoulders the way he learned with his physiotherapist, all the pretending leaving Steve's body, and he finally goes still and quiet.  
  
‘‘Relax your muscles or I can't do this right,’’ Bucky chides him.  
  
Steve tries doing just that, Bucky knows, but letting his guard down isn't something that comes naturally to him—Bucky would be a hypocrite if he asked that much of him. Even so, he really tries with Bucky just like Bucky tries the same thing while being in Steve's company.  
  
‘‘I didn't give you a massage,’’ Steve says with a remorseful tone, sounding more lucid. _Of course_ that's what he would think first. ‘‘Fuck, I don't even remember getting here.’’  
  
‘‘Yeah, you weren't in your right mind, Steve.’’ The man in question doesn't say anything in regards to the statement but Bucky knows he must feel ashamed. And he obviously won't say shit about how he feels. It makes sense that his team went to shit, actually, if all of them have the same attitude in respect of communication.  
  
‘‘Steve, we gotta talk,’’ Bucky voices his thoughts, heaving a sigh because he expects Steve to be difficult.  
  
As anticipated, Bucky feels Steve's body go rigid—getting ready to flee—, so much that Bucky fears it must be painful.  
  
‘‘I warned you it wasn't a good idea to sleep in the same bed,’’ Steve says with a tone that's not so much annoyed as it's resigned and dejected. (Bucky remembers then how Steve thinks that needing to sleep with Bucky's presence near him to make it through the night without any worrying incidents, makes him _a burden_ , somehow, and even if Steve tries to lie and act as if he doesn't need the company, Bucky knows better by now. That's a discussion he wants to have, but Bucky has to choose his battles.)  
  
Bucky is so fucking done with the Captain America voice. It's true that the both of them have changed a whole fucking lot, that they are without a doubt different from the men they were back in the forties, and it's true that Bucky has some trouble recalling those times, but one thing he is sure of is that Steve never used that voice, never adopted that persona.  
  
‘‘I told you,’’ Steve continues with a bitter tone. ‘‘I can't sleep and I will wake you—’’  
  
‘‘I'm not talking about that, you dipstick, and don't even dare get out of bed.’’  
  
Steve doesn't relax, not exactly, but he doesn't try to get up or away so Bucky continues kneading the knots on his upper back, shoulders, and neck, muscles tight under his fingers.  
  
‘‘Steve,’’ he starts, ‘‘do you even know what you want?’’  
  
Steve pushes up on his elbows then so he can shoot Bucky a puzzled look, his brow knitted. ‘‘What?’’  
  
‘‘It's downright unsettling that _that_ is your reaction to my question,’’ Bucky makes him know with a raised brow. This obviously makes Steve even more confused. Bucky takes a breath, trying not to look or sound exasperated. ‘‘Steve, when we were in the quinjet on our way here I told you I want to live in the woods or something as far away from civilization as that. What did you say?’’ At first, they had laughed, but the two knew Bucky was being serious about wanting to live somewhere secluded—at least for some time.  
  
Steve takes his time to give an answer; Bucky is convinced it's not because he doesn't remember, but because he's unsure of the answer he is supposed to give.  
  
_This isn't a press conference_ , Bucky thinks with something akin to resentment, one not directed at Steve but at the people and circumstances that have made his friend feel this way.  
  
‘‘Yeah, me too, buddy?’’ Steve finally cites his own words with uncertainty. Bucky nods, looking down at him from his position on the bed, and Steve shifts until he's at Bucky's level, propped on one elbow.  
  
‘‘And when we arrived here and made sure everything was okay I told you how relieved I was that we didn't have to fight in another war,’’ Bucky carries on, eyeing Steve carefully for any sign that he knows where he's trying to go.  
  
‘‘Yeah,’’ Steve nods but the wrinkle between his brows is still present and Bucky is starting to have the need to smooth it down with his thumb. ‘‘And I told you I agreed with you.’’  
  
Bucky stays silent, giving Steve a moment, but it looks like he isn't reaching the same conclusion Bucky did the moment the words ‘‘me too, Buck’’ came out of Steve's mouth. ‘‘Doesn't it sound a bit... paradoxical that you were saying _that_ while you thought you were on your way to fight some aliens? Just after coming back from hunting down terrorists?’’  
  
‘‘I...’’ Steve blinks his eyes, looking as if he's just waking up from a deep sleep. Bucky sees with perfect clarity the moment Steve's hackles rise. ‘‘I couldn't just not come, Buck, I thought Tony was in danger!’’ he exclaims defensively.  
  
Bucky doesn't let himself lose his temper and places a soothing hand on Steve's shoulder, who eyes it like he doesn't understand why Bucky isn't angry. ‘‘I know, Steve, and I would never tell you not to help one of your friends, but what stops you now? If you want to retire and live your _own_ life, why not do it now that you have a chance?’’  
  
Bucky observes the emotions shift on Steve's face, sees how his first reaction is to contradict him (something that makes Bucky smile because that is such a _Steve thing_ ), followed by deep confusion. The journey ends with his face set on stunned, unable to react in any other way. Bucky doesn't know if to laugh or cry because Steve hasn't even thought about it.  
  
‘‘I...’’ Steve swallows with difficulty, his gaze lost somewhere on the wall behind Bucky. ‘‘I never thought I could do it... now.’’ Bucky catches himself before he can let out a breath of relief; so he has _at least_ considered the possibility of retiring in the future.  
  
Bucky gives him another minute of silence, Steve visibly lost in thought. ‘‘I need you to trade me your place,’’ Bucky eventually says.  
  
Steve snaps out of his daze and blinks slowly at Bucky. ‘‘Why?’’ he asks warily.  
  
‘‘Because I have one fucking arm, Steven, and I’m going to hug you,’’ Bucky says gruffly.  
  
Steve needs a moment but Bucky finally sees his shy smile bloom where it belongs. Steve gets on his hands and knees so Bucky can wriggle under him, and just when he's about to flop down on Bucky's place, Bucky snakes his arm around his waist and makes Steve fall on him with a grunt. ‘‘I feel like we've been too much time apart,’’ Bucky says in a low tone, ‘‘not to take advantage of the few moments we have together.’’  
  
Steve doesn't have an answer to that but he does shift until he's made himself comfortable on Bucky's chest (yep, his face on that one spot again. Bucky has no complaints.) After asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn the light off again, Bucky takes the opportunity and buries his nose in Steve's locks. ‘‘Didja know that you smell just like when we were kids?’’ he hears himself ask after some minutes of silence, his tone already sleepy and feeling his body melting into the mattress. Steve makes an enquiring sound at the back of his throat and Bucky follows it with an affirmative one of his own.  
  
Bucky spends another five minutes stroking the blonde's hair, feeling Steve relax on top of him. He's lost in thought. Bucky knows that Steve is dozing off and will probably fall into a peaceful slumber if he doesn't say or do anything to wake him now, but he also knows that they need to discuss some things and the sooner it's done, the better.  
  
‘‘Stevie...’’ Bucky breathes, already feeling worn out. ‘‘You know I've been going to therapy, right?’’ He feels Steve nod against his chest, letting out a placid ‘‘mhmm.’’ Bucky already feels like shit for being about to shatter the peacefulness they have somehow accomplished . ‘‘One of the things we discuss frequently is communication and the need to be able to feel that we can communicate with the people we care about.’’  
  
‘‘...Okay?’’  
  
‘‘Don't be a smartass, Steve,’’ Bucky huffs with no real heat behind the words but still feeling himself get irritated. God, he had felt so _in peace_ in Wakanda. Now that they're in the USA... he's restless again, not so in control of his emotions as he got accustomed to being. Maybe Steve is one of those reasons; he's tense all the time, on edge, and gloomy, and sometimes Bucky still feels that what happened a year ago was, in a way, his own fault.  
  
Steve raises his head to look at him, the dark circles standing clear under his eyes. Bucky can see that Steve has some idea about where Bucky is trying to go with this line of dialogue. ‘‘You gotta talk with Stark, Steve; this shit is eating away at the two of you. In fact, _all_ of you people need to get in a damn room and get your shit sorted out— _but_ , the two of you...’’ Bucky cuts himself off and sits up on the bed, Steve rolling to the side and propping himself on an elbow, eyeing Bucky through his lashes with a cautious expression.  
  
Bucky takes a deep breath and decides to start over. ‘‘You know… I saw some of your sketches earlier, while you were with the others.’’ Bucky lets himself smile a little when Steve's ever-present frown of preoccupation turns into one of confusion before the apparent non sequitur. (He doesn't share his suspicion that, if Stark hasn't already thrown the Avengers' stuff away, it may mean that Stark has kept the hope—or conjecture—that they would come back, someday.) ‘‘A third of them were of Stark.’’ Steve's gaze falls to the sheets. Bucky runs his hand from Steve's nape to his cheek like a caress, until he can lift his head and make Steve look at him. ‘‘Steve, you have never drawn—in your entire life—someone you don't care about. _And_ ,’’ he says when he catches Steve opening his goddamn mouth to contradict him, ‘‘I'm not talking about drawing _once_ or twice something you find interesting, or curious, or just aesthetically pleasing.’’ That shuts him up.  
  
‘‘I tried to...’’ Steve clears his throat. ‘‘We were going to talk—about the Avengers, about Siberia... But you saw what happened.’’ He's staring at Bucky with pleading eyes, waiting for Bucky to understand. And he does—maybe better than Steve himself. Bucky understands that Steve wants to mend things with Stark, and he also understands, finally, that Steve _doesn't_ actually want to keep doing this—this endless fighting and losing. But has Steve deduced this by himself yet?  
  
‘‘You gotta try harder, Stevie,’’ is what Bucky ends up saying, not wanting to put his own ideas in Steve's head.  
  
Steve lies down on the bed, covering his face with his arms and letting out a sharp and long exhale of air. Bucky lies by his left side, drawing idle forms on Steve's belly and letting him organize his thoughts. Maybe, in some weeks, he will try and talk with Steve about going to therapy, or at least join Bucky in one of his sessions, just to see what it's about. And if shit goes too far south and Steve refuses to get help... well, Bucky will have to kick his ass and call him on his bullshit.  
  
‘‘I don't want to go on like this,’’ Steve finally speaks out, and his expression is like the one of someone who's had an epiphany. ‘‘I don't—fuck, I don't want to live like this all my life. I don't want to be part of the government's schemes—any government's.’’ Steve is now looking directly at him, his eyes wide, and Bucky tries not to let his proud smile get out of control.  
  
‘‘And—’’ Steve sits up on the bed again, restless energy pouring out of him in waves. ‘‘And I _do_ want to live in the damn woods, away from people who can only see me as an image or a traitor to their country.’’ Steve reclines on the headboard, his gaze lost somewhere on the wall in front of them. ‘‘But... But the team needs my strength, my skills...’’ His lips are parted and even if he's not talking anymore, Bucky knows he's in deep thought. ‘‘What if I retire and they need me?’’  
  
‘‘Then they'll get in contact with you and you'll decide what to do. You'll cross that bridge when you come to it, Steve. Jesus, you haven't even gotten out of your ugly pajamas—’’  
  
‘‘Buck, get over it, already,’’ Steve says with a dry tone. Even so, Bucky can tell that he's trying not to smile.  
  
‘‘Never!’’ And that finally makes him crack. Suddenly, the two of them dissolve into laughter, rolling on the bed side by side. Bucky is the first to make it subside, deciding to enjoy the novelty of Steve looking content. And he actually seems more at ease, looser now that he's made his decision.  
  
Steve is still laughing mildly when he rolls until his face is hovering over Bucky's, his eyes bright. Bucky cups his face and dries a lonely tear that's rolled down Steve's cheek, his smile still present. Steve lowers his lips until they connect with Bucky's in a gentle, almost chaste kiss. They haven't had the opportunity to do a lot of this, haven't had a lot of time for the two of them, and Bucky knows Steve is about to go away, so he decides to make the most of the little time they have.  
  
He wraps his legs and arm around Steve, deepening the kiss. Bucky trails his tongue along the seam of Steve's lips until he parts them and lets him lick inside his warm mouth. Bucky grins when Steve lets out a surprised gasp when he gets his ass grabbed and squeezed unapologetically. _Goddammit. I need the other arm._  
  
Steve eventually breaks the kiss, panting against Bucky's neck, which isn't doing any good to the situation inside his boxers or the feeling of floating. ‘‘Rain check,’’ Steve promises, licking his lips, and Bucky agrees with a throaty chuckle. ‘‘When I have both my arms.’’ Steve giggles against his chest and Bucky wonders if bursting into tears because of the sound would be deemed excessive or even mawkish.  
  
He stares at Steve for a moment, at his swollen red lips, his eyes finally recovering that brightness Bucky hasn't seen in so long, his cheeks flushed pink, the color traveling down his throat and under his shirt. It's enough to make him forget—at least for a short period of time—about the last seventy years. And, for a second, it's like he's traveled back in time and he has the skinny, stubborn Steve from the thirties in bed with him. His brain reminds him where exactly he left the inhaler for the last time before getting drafted.  
  
‘‘I need a shower,’’ Steve cuts into Bucky's thoughts, but he doesn't really sound up for it. Bucky hums, fingers carding through Steve's hair again, aware that it must not be helping him much, either. _Well, perhaps we still have time for a nap_ , his mind supplies when Steve starts playing with his long hair.  
  
‘‘You need to shave this dead cat off of your face,’’ Bucky mumbles lethargically with his eyes closed, pocking at Steve's cheek with a finger that Steve swats away like it's an annoying fly.  
  
Out of the blue, Bucky feels an unexpected sadness wash over him. It makes him inexplicably heartbroken that other people can't see this part of Steve; sweet, and gentle, a tenderness not stained by the violence that a long time ago sank its claws on Steve's life and hasn't let go since then.  
  
‘‘Maybe it doesn't sound like it,’’ Steve suddenly starts saying, ‘‘but I _have_ considered retiring, it's just...’’ He makes a pause, his throat clicking when he swallows down. ‘‘I never thought it could be this _soon_ , and...’’ He takes a deep breath and releases a shaky one. It sounds like saying the words is taking a toll on him. ‘‘I don't really feel like I deserve it, like I have earned it.’’  
  
Bucky doesn't speak right away, taking in the not so surprising confession. ‘‘Steve, you're not... You _are not_ fuckin' bound to give _more_ ,’’ he surprises himself with his sharp tone. ‘‘You gave your life once,’’ Steve shift uneasily on his chest, ‘‘and you've come every time the world has needed you. You have done more than enough, Steve. You deserve—you have _earned_ your own life even when you shouldn't've fuckin' had to because you already had one, and they made you think you had to pay a price to get it back. You—’’  
  
The stifled sob is what finally cuts his tirade off. Bucky asks himself how he hasn't felt the shacking of Steve's shoulders against him. Bucky clutched him tight with his single fucking arm, feeling how his own face pales in front of the unexpected breakdown, his heart aching inside his chest. ‘‘Shit, baby doll. Was it something I said? I'm so, so sorry, Stevie.’’  
  
Bucky rolls the two of them on their sides and holds Steve close against his chest, giving him all the time he needs to pour out whatever it's afflicting him. His own eyes are wet so he screws them shut, burrowing his face in Steve's hair, apologizing one time after another. ‘‘It's okay, Stevie. Let it out, it's okay, it's only the two of us,’’ he murmurs encouragingly in Steve's ear, rubbing his back in slow circles. He just wants Steve to know that he doesn't have to pretend in front of him.  
  
It may hurt to see him like this, hear his broken cries, but it's a step in the right direction—the one of healing, he hopes.  
  
After some time, Steve draws away from Bucky, luckily not putting that much distance between the two of them. He wipes at his cheeks with both palms, drying his tears away. He covers his reddened face with his hands and just takes one deep breath after another. Bucky's hand switches from rubbing Steve's shoulder, to his chest, and then his sides, wanting to make Steve know without the need of words that he's here for him, intending to be a steady presence.  
  
Steve takes one more heavy breath before speaking again. The words sound like they're being ripped out of some profound and intimate corner of his mind. ‘‘I don't know if I can be something that isn't a weapon.’’  
  
Bucky recognizes the fear in his tone, the apprehension, like it's his own. And it has been—still is some days (after all, he's far from being a paragon of mental health.) That is why the only thing he says is, ‘‘You will find out. Just give yourself a chance and enough time.’’  
  
Steve finally uncovers his face, staring in silence at the ceiling, his expression shifting gradually into one of determination. ‘‘All right,’’ he finally states, giving a single nod.  
  
‘‘Swell,’’ it's what Bucky says in turn, making an effort to control his own expression, which he's pretty sure must be trying to reflect the various emotions making his stomach feel like he's on a rollercoaster.  
  
_Wow. He must really make you all warm and fuzzy inside for you to have that expression when you look at him_ , Bucky remembers—a smile making its way to his lips—Shuri saying to him once. _We should keep him around; people are afraid to approach you, you know? What with your sad hobo vibe._ Okoye, the general, had been around at the time and Bucky remembers her taking one look at him and just nodding her agreement with a passionless expression.  
  
‘‘People tease me when I use that word,’’ Steve says, his voice low and rough, but at least he's talking.  
  
‘‘Have they done it recently?’’ Bucky asks, accepting the offering to a trivial conversation, one that will be useful to drain the tension off the room. He shifts until the casing of his left shoulder brushes Steve's skin, who in turn rolls on his side and, snaking an arm across Bucky's torso, draws him closer, wrapping himself around him. Steve rubs a hand absentmindedly over the sensitive flesh that limits with the metal, making Bucky shiver and exhale a content breath. ‘‘Now that you've copied my hobo-chic style...’’ he adds.  
  
‘‘Your what now?’’ Steve asks with a startled laugh.  
  
‘‘I don't know. It's what Shuri calls it sometimes; says it scares people away.’’ Steve snorts, the tension in his body seeming to have eased away, at least some part of it. Either way, Bucky knows Steve is about to do what he has to do.  
  
Silence falls and the two men seize the moment to soak in the peaceful atmosphere, sure that it's not going to last long.  
  
‘‘Thanks, Buck. I don't know what I would do without you,’’ Steve finally says, his tone grave. He doesn't look at Bucky but his grip on him tightens.  
  
‘‘You would survive; you've always been pretty good at that,’’ Bucky assures him, something deep inside of him straining painfully, all of a sudden, filling him with dread toward Steve's words.  
  
‘‘Yeah...’’ Steve says, sounding pensive. ‘‘But I wouldn't be living,’’ he finishes in a voice so quiet, Bucky only hears the words thanks to the serum.  
  
‘‘You're not doing much of that either, right now,’’ Bucky says, squeezing Steve's hand, which is resting over his heart. Steve finally looks back at him, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but doesn't deny any of it.  
  
Steve crawls Bucky's body until he can kiss his forehead, followed by his eyelids and cheeks, his lips the final goal. Bucky sighs in his mouth, parting his lips and closing his eyes, feeling the tension leave him thread by thread when Steve's hot tongue strokes his own, deepening the kiss. Steve's warm body sliding against his own makes Bucky's head swim, the lazy, unhurried kissing wrenching a moan from his throat—or maybe it's Steve's.  
  
‘‘I'm going to take a shower,’’ Steve informs him between kisses, finally getting out of bed and making his way to the bathroom, causing Bucky to groan with disapproval, making grabby hands at Steve. ‘‘You want something to eat? You should eat something,’’ he says while stripping from his sweaty clothes, smiling.  
  
‘‘Nah, not hungry,’’ Bucky answers distractedly.  
  
Steve observes him with a lopsided smile and a pensive look. ‘‘You tellin' the truth or is it 'cause there isn't any candy in the kitchen?’’ This earns him a surprised laugh from Bucky, who's mouth is suddenly filled with a sweet taste, one that feels like a memory. ‘‘Glad to see you still have a sweet tooth.’’  
  
Bucky is still looking at Steve, pretty sure the sappy smile on his face is beyond embarrassing. Steve comes to a halt just before sliding into the bathroom and stares at him with an expression Bucky considers very similar to his own. Bucky wants to tease the shit out of him but doesn't find it in himself to break the spell.  
  
Steve reaches the bed in three long strides and, with his hands at either side of Bucky's head, lowers himself until their noses are brushing—his smile warmer and sweeter than ever, and Bucky vows to do whatever it's in his hand to make it appear as often as possible. ‘‘Pal, you're giving me type one diabetes here.’’ But he's not actually going to start complaining about Steve's need for physical closeness, physical reassurance.  
  
Steve is still snickering when he finally closes the distance between their lips, and Bucky can finally feel how the claw that's been squeezing his throat since Steve woke him up loosens its hold. He can only feel Steve's smile against his own.  
  
It hits Bucky then, the irony that the first time he's achieved a real conversation with Steve, one where Steve shares not only physical contact but his unvarnished thoughts, is when things have reached such a messy and unstable state.  
  
‘‘Hey, Steve,’’ he says, feeling a sudden urge.  
  
‘‘Yeah?’’ Steve says sleepily, his face once again mashed on Bucky's neck.  
  
‘‘I love you.’’  
  
Steve doesn't say anything but Bucky notices that he's stopped breathing, which makes him hold his own breath. After half a minute, Steve finally sets free a controlled exhale and pulls away. Bucky eyes him carefully, his guarded expression, fearing that Steve is going to leave the room and make everything awkward because he's a fucking dumbass. But, then, with some difficulty, he says, ‘‘I... I love you, too, Buck,’’ the words sounding like they are causing him pain in the way out, _forced_ out. Or maybe because the words have been buried for a long time and now Steve has to dig them out.  
  
Steve seals his words with another kiss and directs a regretful look at Bucky when he has to pull away. Bucky catches the determined expression that settles on Steve's features just before he closes the door behind him with a click.  
  
Bucky exhales a deep breath after an entire minute with his stare glued to the door and gets on his feet, the floor warm under his bare feet despite the cold and wind outside.  
  
‘‘Food,’’ he reminds himself.  
  
It's past five in the morning; Bucky reaches the conclusion that there shouldn't be a lot of people roaming the compound. And he's _fucking hungry_.  
  
Back when he had to relearn to take care of himself after seventy years of being handled by HYDRA as their bandog, eating had been kind of an issue since Bucky hadn't been in touch with his basic needs. Which meant that he'd had to make a schedule and put alerts in his newly stolen phone to remind himself _when_ to do what any human being did by heart. Almost four years have passed, and being aware of his hunger still feels strange, foreign.  
  
After some consideration, Bucky opts for putting the pajama pants and no socks because he can't find them. He looks at the vibranium arm, the water from the shower as background music. Bucky runs his hand over the metal, fighting down the impulse to send Shuri a text message thanking her for the nth time for everything she and the other scientists have done for him. Nothing he does or says will be enough. Bucky finally decides not to put the arm back and instead performs some of the stretching exercises for the muscles of his back, arm, and shoulders.  
  
The hallways and rooms are empty, dark and eerily quiet, but below the silence, Bucky can hear the humming of machinery, something that reminds him that Stark's A.I. is _everywhere_. Which wouldn't be a problem since an Artificial Intelligence is pretty swell, but said Artificial Intelligence doesn't like them that much, what with Bucky and Steve having fought its creator. Understandable. Bucky thinks he would act the same way if he was an A.I.  
  
_Not sure that's a really sane thought to have_ , Bucky ponders. Maybe he'll share it with his therapist when he sees her again. He only hopes he can find his way back to the communal kitchen without ending lost in the immense facility, and having to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. for directions—Bucky feels like she would tell him to go fuck himself or send him to a human-sized blender.  
  
_Oh, I am sorry but you did not specify the kind of kitchen you were looking for_ , Bucky imagines her saying, his lonely snicker echoing on the walls.  
  
Bucky finally finds the kitchen and without bothering to turn on the light—as if that's going to make him feel less like a thief, an intruder—he makes his way to the sink and serves himself a glass of water. He looks at the condensation and the drops of water on the crystal. He misses his hut, and the goats and their annoying bleating, and the kids that visit him sometimes. And he misses seeing the Dora Milaje—Bucky is sure as hell not even thinking about joining Steve and his merry band, but seeing fighters such as the Dora Milaje... they are something _else_ entirely.  
  
Bucky washes the glass and puts it exactly where he found it, and then drags a chair and sits at the table. He's facing the entrance to the kitchen when a shadow appears and then the lights are turned on. Bucky blinks calmly, giving his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust. The kid is looking at him with wide eyes. Bucky wonders if he should ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. politely not to murder him for being—by accident—in the same room with her creator's... protégé? Stark is too protective of the kid for Bucky to use that word.  
  
‘‘Hey,’’ Bucky greets him, raising his hand and then having the sudden need to cover his left shoulder. The kid gives a fleeting glimpse at said shoulder and then averts his gaze—Bucky notes that he's more polite than Sam. Points to him for not calling Bucky _Mr. Potato Head_.  
  
The kid, Peter, doesn't enter the kitchen, but neither does he make a move in the opposite direction. Bucky isn't sure what to do; the kid looks restless, fidgeting with his hands and biting his bottom lip.  
  
‘‘Um. Do you want something to eat?’’ Bucky finally says tentatively, getting out of his seat without any brusque movements. The kid looks him up and down, finally, and averts his gaze, again, this time his face covered by a bright blush.  
  
_I should have put on the fucking ugly shirt. Oh, God, don't let there be any hickeys_ , Bucky begs, having the need to facepalm _(Thanks, Shuri, for the very useful word)_ or just hide. He hopes he's not made the kid uncomfortable; the scars aren't pretty to look at, that's for sure.  
  
Bucky notices then that the kid is in his pajamas as well and barefoot like him, shuffling his feet, his hair looking as if at some point he's tried to get it under control but hasn't succeeded. The pants have tiny hammers on them. ‘‘Uh...’’ is the only thing he says, so Bucky decides not to pester the kid and endure the tense silence, instead. He's just as at a loss of what to do as the kid looks like.  
  
It dawns on him then: maybe the kid is scared and that's why he's behaving in such an insecure way. It's not that improbable, taking into account that they fought each other less than a year ago. And he's still the Winter Soldier for almost everybody else that isn't Steve and some other people he can count with the fingers of his mismatched hands.  
  
That thought makes Bucky feel sick to his stomach, that's why he decides to distract himself with something and opens the fridge. He gets food out almost at random, and when he closes the door of the refrigerator, Peter is sitting at the table. Okay, good. So they're doing this. He puts the products on the table, a barrier of sorts between them, and extends his hand. ‘‘I'm Bucky.’’ He doesn't add the surname, giving the kid an out if he doesn't want to share that much information. Pretty sure he knows perfectly well who Bucky is, but nothing wrong about introducing oneself officially now that they're not in different sides and trying to beat each other.  
  
The kid eyes his hand with wide eyes and Bucky feels something lodge itself in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. But he finally takes his hand with a firm grip and says with a meek voice, ‘‘Peter.’’ Bucky nods once, trying not to appear too cranky—something Sam's mentioned one too many times—and goes to find two plates. He picks up the sliced bread and just looks at it, feeling Peter's eyes on him even with his long hair obscuring his view of the kid.  
  
Bucky clears his throat, preparing himself to break the ice, but Peter beats him to it. ‘‘Is Mr. Stark okay?’’ He makes a pause. ‘‘Um. I tried to see him but F.R.I.D.A.Y. wouldn't let me get in his rooms.’’  
  
Bucky looks at him for a couple of seconds, the kid holding his gaze even when he's twisting some piece of paper in his hands, nervous. ‘‘I don't know,’’ Bucky finally answers. ‘‘He's not gravely injured if that's what you're asking.’’  
  
Peter looks at his hands with his brow furrowed. He lets go of the piece of paper and Bucky can see him ball his fists when he puts his hands in his lap. ‘‘Thank you for telling me; Vision wouldn't.’’ His words are clipped—due to his clenched jaw, probably. It's clear to Bucky that the kid is trying to control his breaths—his darting eyes are wet and bright. But he's not leaving.  
  
And neither is Bucky, not when the poor kid looks so distressed, like he's just woken from a nightmare, alone. ‘‘I hope you like eggs because I can't really cook.’’  
  
Peter lifts his head, hands clasped between his knees, and answers with a little smile that Bucky tries not to return, but fails miserably. He doesn't really care about that when he sees the kid's tense shoulders loosen a bit, and Peter places his arms on the table and then rests his head on them. He's dead to the world after dutifully finishing his scrambled eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait wait wait. Was that the L word ?? ??? YASSS!!! Bc Marvel's never gonna have the balls (or the ovaries, as we say in Spain) to do it SO I HAD TO STEP UP FOR THEM
> 
> Yep, it seems like I can't have a Steve/Bucky scene without it turning into plain tooth-rotting fluff. I'm incapable, okay? It's a condition, I've looked it up. (I'll stop now, I just had to get it out of my system.)
> 
> This chapter took a loooong time to finish because it was from Bucky's POV (something that wasn't supposed to happen in this fic) and it was just kinda unexpected even for me and I wanted to do it right. I just love Bucky. So much. There are no words. He deserves the best AND MORE.
> 
> But really tho should I add the tooth-rotting fluff tag????
> 
> (Oh, this isn't something important but I feel like Bucky would feel safer with women after being under HYDRA'S control, that's why I chose for him to have a female therapist. It's a sad headcanon I have :(((((( )
> 
> I said something about posting the next chapter in September right? Well I found my dad's old laptop and thought ‘‘Why not do anything but write?’’ And here you have it... on Sebastian Stan's bday, let me point out, since here in Bulgaria it's already 13 Aug and Romania is our neighbor so there is too.
> 
> And finally let me say how much I treasure your kudos, comments, bookmarks...
> 
> (Really, your comments keep me away from hardcore drugs.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all agree Tony deserves some fluff, too, right? Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Portishead’s The Rip on repeat writing this chapter.
> 
> The Last of Us and Left Behind soundtracks are pretty good too and I listen to them when I write angst :))))))

Steve faces the reflection in the mirror, observing the strange image it spits back at him. He’s known for a long time now that he hasn’t been doing as great as he’s tried to make his team believe ( _So much for that_ , he thinks. Steve’s pretty sure no one’s bought the act.) Steve knows he hasn’t dealt with Tony’s absence in a healthy way. It’s not like Tony has been the only thing on his mind for the last year; no, that would be unfair to all the other matters he’s been worrying over.  
  
But now… Who would have said that a simple conversation—one of those he’s been dreading and avoided Sam just not to have—could make such a colossal difference. It’s like he’s being able to breathe again, like that moment after getting out of the machine that cured every one of his ailments and he could _actually_ feel his asthma gone. Jesus, he also feels his muscles uncoiling, it’s incredible. All the hope that’s swelling his chest…  
  
Suddenly, everything is clear. He’s retiring. He’s going somewhere far away—with Bucky if he’s lucky. He’ll talk with Sam, probably pass him the mantle of Captain America, since he’s the only person Steve can see carrying the role, being the symbol of the nation. And if he turns it down… well, Steve won’t really mourn the death of the Captain America persona. The Falcon is better, anyway.  
  
Right now there are two different impulses pulling at Steve. The first one is to get to Bucky and just stay with him in the room for as long as they can last without food. Steve just wants to thank Bucky for everything he’s done for him. Just hold him or be held. Bucky has always been a protector and Steve can’t even describe the feeling that’s sprout inside of his chest at the notion that _that_ isn’t something that has changed in more than 70 years.  
  
But Steve knows Bucky will kick his ass if he decides to do that.  
  
The other thing tugging at his ribs is nothing other but the need to… to share this feeling with Tony and do something that will make Tony feel like this. He deserves it. He deserves so _much_. An apology, for starters.  
  
A thought strikes him then, causing Steve to freeze in place. _Maybe_ , he thinks, his eyes lost somewhere on the marble his hands are gripping. _Maybe if it was me the one who fell and not Bucky… if he became Captain America… if he met Tony and the other Avengers… if he was the one to learn who killed Tony’s parents..._  
  
Steve can’t not imagine how different things would have turned out if their positions were reversed. Bucky’s always been a better friend, Steve knows this, a greater man and the person who always inspired Steve to do his best.  
  
He should be taking care of Bucky, not the other way around, for God’s sake! Giving him back everything HYDRA _took away_ decade after decade after decade after... Steve wants to give him back the memories he hasn’t recovered by himself, he wants to make him feel safe, that he has people to rely on, now.  
  
Steve wants to replace the 70 years of touch depravation—fuck, no, it’s even worse than that because the only occasions Bucky had human contact was through violence or when he was handled as a machine. So Steve wants— _needs_ —to replace those memories with opposite ones. That’s one of the reasons why Steve makes sure not only to be at reaching distance from Bucky, but to give him gentle touches even when there are people around—when they are alone is when they can finally drop the act and latch into one another, seeking into the other man the contact their skins so profoundly need. The second reason is that he simply wants those skin-to-skin moments.  
  
Steve knows well enough how much touch means to Bucky, even more now than in the 20th century. Maybe he’s tried to hide it from Steve and the others—he wouldn’t know because for him it’s so easy to see the way Bucky leans into his personal space, into his hands, and how his lips turn downward so slightly when the contact is withdrawn.  
  
Steve huffs a breath, ducking his head. It’s then that he notices there is no blood on his skin; Bucky must have washed it away. Steve shivers, remembering the red covering his skin. God, Bucky’s been through enough and now he has to deal with him acting like a fucking kid. Steve feels his skin heat up with shame.  
  
The image of the bloody imprint of Tony’s hand on his forearm flashes before his eyes. Another image pops up on his mind: a wound on Tony’s own forearm, one Steve had seen but didn’t have the time to think much about; at the moment, he thought it had been caused by the fight. Now that he thinks about it, Clint had been more concentrated on restraining Tony than hitting him back. Steve _did_ see Clint punch Tony, that’s true, but there is no way he hurt Tony’s arms, and certainly not in a way that would inflict such a wound.  
  
A thought is forming in his mind and Steve is already getting out of the bathroom (Bucky’s not in the room anymore. Good, he better be getting something to eat), heading to his own kitchen. He rummages through the cupboards until he finds what he’s looking for. “Strategic placement,” Ms. Potts had told him with a wink a really long time ago. Feels like a lifetime away.  
  
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., is Tony awake?” Steve asks when he’s finally getting into the shower.  
  
The A.I. doesn’t answer immediately but after two minutes that stretch into what Steve feels must be days, she says, “He is.” Steve notices then that he’s been holding his breath the whole time.  
  
“Is he in his room?”  
  
Another pause and Steve is pretty sure F.R.I.D.A.Y. is searching for a way to murder him without actively opposing her creator’s programming.  
  
“Yes.” The answer isn’t just short but Steve can swear that it sounds like a bark.  
  
Steve gives a short nod of his head, determined to get it right for once. This time he mustn’t forget how good Tony is at pretending in front of others, at putting on a mask and pushing people away when he feels like he deserves it.  
  
Or when he feels he might get hurt again.  
_______

  


There’s the far sensation of his legs carrying him along a hallway. It’s like being inside of a dream when the lights start turning on in front of him and off at his back, signaling a path for him to follow. He… he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on, but there’s something in the back of his brain telling him that someone is taking care of him, someone he can trust. He’s turning a corner—one hand reaching for the wall—, when he hears the female voice and the hand changes its path and tries to… to touch the voice. It sounds like it’s coming from everywhere.  
  
“Gamora,” the voice is saying, “would you please get Mr. Stark to his room?”  
  
There are voices in the distance, probably coming from outside the dream. They must be outside of the bubble. Outside of the mud.  
  
He stumbles over his own feet, feeling the floor under him shifting, and immediately there’s a strong hand on his bicep holding him steady in place. He looks up and finds himself facing a green face with her brow furrowed. A man materializes at his other side, his arm snaking around Tony’s waist. He wants to draw back, push them away from him, but doesn’t feel like he would be able to win the fight. He’s being propped against a wall, probably because his legs are shaking too much. He reaches behind his back with a hand, trying to push himself up, but it slips on the surface and he loses completely his balance.  
  
“Jesus,” a male voice exclaims too close to his ear and he moves away instinctively. The arm is still around him and hasn’t let him fall all the way down to the floor. “Sorry, Tony,” the voice apologizes but it’s still too damn close.  
  
“Follow the lights and it will lead you to Mr. Stark’s rooms,” the voice instructs and Tony looks at the ceiling without meaning to.  
  
Another arm gets around his torso and Gamora is by his side when he looks to his right. She slings Tony’s arm over her shoulders and the three of them start following the path of light F.R.I.D.A.Y. creates.  
  
When they finally arrive to his rooms, Tony’s brain has finally started to clear up. Part of him wants to tell Gamora and Quill to leave him alone, but another one—not that strong, though intensified by the deep exhaustion he’s experiencing—is telling him to shut his mouth. Tony lets himself lean into the touch—it almost feels like a willing embrace.  
  
Tony has to finally push them away when his stomach starts churning. He half-runs half-stumbles to the bathroom, F.R.I.D.A.Y. opening the door for him.  
  
“There goes Peter’s PB&J,” Tony mumbles under his breath while F.R.I.D.A.Y. washes away the meager content of his stomach.  
  
He’s trembling from head to toe, his breath coming in shallow puffs of air. Tony rests his head on the toilet seat, feeling hot all over.  
  
“Boss, you—” Tony cuts her speech with a simple but sharp movement of his palm. He’s not about to let his A.I. coddle him as if he’s a helpless child.  
  
The little energy he has, he uses to turn his head: Gamora and Quill haven’t left; they’ve even decided to get in the bathroom with him. Tony groans and opens his mouth, determined to make them go away somehow. But then he just deflates. He doesn’t even have the strength to make the show _his show_. Because that’s how Tony Stark does it; before anyone can get their own impression, he will create one. Controlling what they see of him, what he allows them to think. Tony doesn’t even have an idea of what they must be seeing when they look at him—not that Gamora’s expression gives much away, and Quill is just looking at the room with eyes wide open, lips parted.  
  
They have traveled to Earth to visit and have a good time, and now look at the disgusting mess they found… Tony.  
  
Tony closes his eyes for a second, drifting off, his head uncomfortably tipping to the side. He thinks that there are voices speaking in the distance and after a while of ignoring them, Tony feels like someone is poking at him, but he can’t make himself care right now. Suddenly, someone is lifting him off the floor and Tony hears himself yelp, his voice sounding hoarse and his pulse picking up.  
  
“For God’s sake, Gamora, you’re going to give him a heart attack!” Quill exclaims. Tony can see the guy’s legs from where his dangling over Gamora’s shoulder.  
  
_What the fuck_ , is the only thing that comes to mind.  
  
“He wasn’t listening to me,” is her easy answer.  
  
“Yeah, because the guy was too busy blacking out,” Quill adds.  
  
“Help me here,” Gamora says, ignoring his words. She then puts Tony on the marble counter, where he sits and leans back until his shoulders hit the mirror, his legs dangling over the floor. He eyes Gamora and Quill with a frown from where he’s tucked himself in the corner between wall and sink, even when keeping his eyes open is like enduring torture. “Find a cloth or something similar,” she instructs Quill when she turns on the cold water.  
  
Quill comes back after a minute of rummaging through the cabinets, not caring about making a mess or even closing doors or drawers. He passes Gamora some hand towels which she dips under the running water. Tony’s still too lost and doesn’t know what is going on. That is, until Quill gets in his personal space (Tony even thinks about kicking him since he’s decided to position himself between his knees) and touches his hand. Tony jerks away, his eyes turning into slits. Quill has a neutral expression to which he adds a calming smile on the face of Tony’s skittishness.  
  
Quill extends a hand toward Tony but doesn’t touch him again until he’s seen Tony nod his permission. He takes his palm and turns it up. Tony sees the blood then and lets out a curious sound. “Get rid of the sleeve,” Gamora directs and Quill proceeds to rip half of it off. “Aw, no,” Tony lets out, pathetically. He doesn’t have a lot of time to mourn his destroyed t-shirt when Gamora starts cleaning the blood from his skin. Even if she’s being gentle, Tony jerks away with a hiss, his breath catching in his throat—Quill doesn’t let go of his hand and Gamora doesn’t stop what she’s doing.  
  
Tony wants to just relax and let them do their thing but he can’t help feeling cornered, his muscles straining with anticipation.  
  
“It could get infected,” Gamora clarifies, putting the towel under the tap. Tony looks at the pink water in a daze. “You shouldn’t have waited so long to take care of it.” Tony is pretty sure she isn’t chastising him but he can’t help but feel like a five-year-old again, getting in his father’s workshop to see him build and then getting caught.  
  
“Yeah, man,” Quill chimes in, still holding Tony’s hand and eying his arm. Then he takes another wet hand towel and cleans Tony’s bloody knuckles. He hisses when Gamora resumes cleaning the burned, open flesh. “You’ve been running around with that open wound for hours.”  
  
“And your laboratory is almost as filthy as Peter’s ship when we leave him alone for an hour,” Gamora adds, her eyes closely studying his injury before letting Quill bandage it. It’s only because Tony is shifting his gaze between the two of them with wide and uncomprehending eyes that he notices Quill open his mouth to protest and then just shuts it and shrugs his shoulders.  
  
After a moment, Tony starts to nod off, his cheek resting against the cool wall. He can still hear a murmur of different voices around him, accompanied by the pressure of the bandages being applied over his injuries. It hurts, but it’s a distant sensation.  
  
Tony feels a feather-like brush over his cheek and he stirs out of his stupor when his body tries to follow the retreating touch. It must have been his imagination because the moment he opens his eyes, there’s no one in the bathroom. He sighs with resignation and maybe— _maybe_ —a little bit of disappointment, and braces a hand against the counter, trying to hop off it. Tony should have realized it’s not a good idea, taking into account that his body has no more backup energy. This means that he just crashes to the floor with a high-pitched yelp. He huffs an irritated breath but makes no attempt to get up. Maybe he will spend here the night—the floor is cold but pristine.  
  
Tony does end up falling asleep within minutes, drooling a bit against the floor.  
_______

  


“Gamora, why is Tony lying on the floor? Face down.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You were supposed to keep an eye on him while I went for the Zune!”  
  
“He must have fallen when I went to see Mantis.”  
  
“Why did you go see her?”  
  
“I’ll tell you later. Get the blankets on his bed ready; he has to rest.”  
  
“I love being reminded of how strong you are.”  
  
“Shut your face.”  
  
“Okay, that’s definitely something you’ve learned here. I knew you were going to like Earth.”  
  
“Move. I have to put Tony down.”  
  
“He _does_ look like someone you have to knock out before he admits defeat.”  
  
“I think he was too wound up to let his guard down.”  
  
“…”  
  
“…”  
  
“You staying, too, right?”  
  
“Of course.”  
_______

  


He’s at Leipzig/Halle Airport. The battle is unfurling before and around him and Tony can see everyone fighting—can see himself fighting. But he doesn’t care about this fucking circus; his eyes are searching for Peter because he _knows_ he’s here somewhere but _**why**_? Why would Peter be here, in a fight involving super people and super assassins? Why would Tony allow something like that? Peter is here somewhere fighting because Tony asked him to and he agreed and… and he didn’t even know what they were fighting for because Tony didn’t tell him—because he knew Peter wouldn’t come if he knew about the Sokovia Accords and what they would mean for him and his alter ego.  
  
Everyone is running and jumping and throwing punches and just being a total nuisance with their arrows and _flying_ vehicles, but where the fuck is Peter?! Tony has to get him out of here, get him somewhere safe!  
  
Tony is not in his suit when he finally finds the kid—his suited-self is too busy fighting Steve. He remembers this part, when the kid was knocked down by the _giant_ guy and landed on some boxes. He remembers it clearly because for a second there, Tony thought it had been fatal.  
  
He approaches him in the same way someone would try to outrun a monster in a nightmare; slowly, like moving through tar. Tony notes that his surroundings have suddenly become fuzzy around the edges. _It’s okay. He’s okay. I remember…_  
  
There’s blood on the ground. It must not be Peter’s, it just _cannot_ because Tony remembers the relieved breath he had released when the kid turned and lashed out at him, scared because he was visibly groggy.  
  
_It’s not it’s not it’s not it’s—_  
  
Tony can feel himself bolted to the ground, incapable of movement, not when one of his biggest fears is waiting for him only feet away. He can see it now, the blood pooling on the ground, drenching Peter’s suit and creeping closer to Tony.  
  
And suddenly Peter’s head is resting on Clint’s lap, the man cradling in his hands the kid’s uncovered face. Peter’s face is pale, his eyes closed, and his lips blue. Clint’s expression is one of devastation, as if he’s holding one of his own kids’ lifeless bodies. Clint isn’t even shedding tears—he must be in shock, unable to process what is happening.  
  
But Tony can feel it in his chest, his heart being ripped out the same way Stane did with the arc reactor so many years ago. Only worse. God, _it’s so much worse_.  
  
“Look at what you did.”  
  
Tony can’t turn, his eyes still roaming over Peter’s unmoving body, but he recognizes Steve’s voice. His tone isn’t accusatory; he sounds just as bereft as Tony feels. Tony finally sees him when Steve gets to Clint’s side—no, Peter’s head is resting on May’s lap, Clint’s hand resting on the kid’s forehead where May’s silent tears are falling. Steve gets down to his knees, looking at Peter’s body with eyes wide open.  
  
_I didn’t mean to_ , is what he tries to say, but what actually comes out of his lips is “I did this.”  
  
_I didn’t mean to_. “I killed Peter.”  
  
Everyone is around the body and Tony can’t move, can’t get closer. He can’t see Peter. He’s surrounded by all the people who would have done better, the ones who wouldn’t have risked his life.  
  
_I didn’t—_ “I killed you.”  
  
_I did—_ “I killed you.”  
  
_I—_ “I killed you.”  
  
“Tony…”  
  
_I killed you._

  


Tony can feel hands grabbing his wrists, restraining him when he tries to lash out. He doesn’t know what is going on but his heart is beating mercilessly against his chest and he feels like breathing is something impossible. His ears are ringing and he can feel the bile rising in his throat.  
  
Suddenly, he’s rolled on his side, something warm against his forehead holding him while he gags. The numbness is freeing his body and the first thing he feels is a hand on his back rubbing soothing circles. There’s nothing in his stomach and Tony breathes deeply while trying to get his bearings.  
  
Someone wipes the saliva and bile off his mouth with something soft and then settles him against the pillows sans blankets since he’s clearly sweating through his clothes. Tony screws his eyes shut, drawing breath after breath like someone who’s come out of the water after too long under the surface. That’s a well-known experience for him.  
  
Tony curls into himself on his side, feeling too exposed.  
  
“Stark.” Tony’s not sure if he’s really heard someone calling his name; there’s still the ringing going on. _Fuck_ , his body is shivering so much it’s causing his teeth to chatter. Tony forces his jaw closed but it doesn’t help that much. He can’t tell if he’s getting cold.  
  
There’s a tentative hand rubbing his arm. When he doesn’t move away or lash out again, Tony feels another hand on his hair, which must be disgusting with all the sweating he’s doing.  
  
There are voices outside the place in his mind where he’s buried himself. Tony can’t distinguish what they’re saying, too focused on the touch. Another hand, this one larger, joins the other two, this time settling on his back. The space behind him sinks so someone must have sat on the other side of the bed; right now he’s too exhausted to care. The touch is actually having a calming effect, just like the voices, even if Tony’s brain isn’t really registering the words. After some minutes, Tony catches the gentle notes of a piano on the background; F.R.I.D.A.Y., he realizes.  
  
“Tony,” he finally hears a female voice say. He tries and open his eyes but it’s just too much, it hurts, and he’s so jaded he could start crying.  
  
And because he _deserves_ it, deserves to have that outpouring of emotions, Tony lets himself do just that. He hears the instant whimper followed by a broken sob that sounds like it’s coming deep from his chest, causing his frame to quiver. Tony clenches his jaw shut when the hand on his hair descends to his cheek, but he can’t keep it up for long and finally lets out another pained sound, eyes tightly shut making him see bright spots, the tears leaking and rolling down his face. God, he feels so overwhelmed and confused. _It’s so much, always so much_.  
  
Gamora and Quill must have picked up on his need for physical closeness, reassurance, because suddenly there’s a body over his head obscuring the light of the room, hands cradling his head. It’s not long until Quill’s body behind his back gets closer until it’s another wall shielding Tony. Their hands are rubbing his arms, the side he’s not resting on, stroking his hair and neck, and Tony is pretty sure they’re trying to talk him through the panic but the only thing he can hear is his blood pounding in his ears and temples, and his wet breaths.  
  
But it works and after a while (a long while) Tony gets his breath under control; he’s still slightly trembling. Even so, Gamora and Quill haven’t pulled away and are still grounding him with their touches. Tony takes a moment to relax his body, soak in the contact, and then gives a sigh and tries to pull away.  
  
“Hey, come on now, Tony,” Quill says with a gentle tone. He isn’t trying to hold Tony down—the same as Gamora, who’s hovering over him, still sitting at the edge of the bed—but his touch hasn’t retreated either. “Let’s just stay like this for another moment and later you can freak out as much as you want.” Tony doesn’t know how to feel about being that easy to read. Gamora’s little smile is what prompts him to lay his head back on the pillow, sagging against the bed. Smart, because the room is spinning.  
  
Quill’s chest is still flush to Tony’s back (is that a snore? Is the guy already snoring in Tony’s hair?) but Gamora has sat up—Tony’s muscles loosen a little bit more when her fingers curl with his locks, carding through them and her nails scraping along his scalp. That, plus Quill’s solid and soothing presence, is enough to cause Tony to feel mesmerized. He catches himself staring at Gamora even when his eyes are itching and his head pounding; his hand is clutching Quill’s, which is resting against his abdomen.  
  
“You feeling better?” she asks. The only time Tony’s seen her with such a warm expression is when directed at Groot—and Quill when he’s not paying attention. His battered mind doesn’t dwell on it for too long, not when the light is outlining her profile is such a striking way and there’s a firm grip around his middle, anchoring him to this moment. He honestly doesn’t understand why they are here. Did he promise to do something and has forgotten? What does their behavior mean?  
  
Tony hears himself let out a woozy sound ( _Can a sound be woozy? Probably not_ , Tony wonders groggily) and is that his hand reaching for…? Oh, okay, holding hands is okay, it’s good. God, the green of her skin is so pretty, how hasn’t he noticed that before? Why is she laughing?  
  
“Right?” Tony hears Quill mumble sleepily, his breath tousling Tony’s hair. He feels like it should annoy him but has quite the opposite effect. “Her face marks are pretty cool, too.”  
  
“You two should get some sleep,” Tony suggests, trying to keep his eyes open but not making a good job of it. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s voicing his thoughts out loud without meaning to.  
  
“You offering us your bed?” Gamora asks with a smirk, causing Tony to splutter. “I’m kidding, Tony. Don’t worry, you don’t have to answer that.” Tony is pretty sure she’s trying not to laugh in his face. (He is absolutely not blushing.) (Maybe if he closes his eyes she won’t notice.) Luckily, the hand on his hair doesn’t stop brushing it. God, he’s melting into the mattress and is this close to start nuzzling her palm.  
  
Tony feels like he’s inside of a bubble, floating over his bed. But, at the same time, he has the sensation of being cradled and kept safe in someone’s arms. And it’s so stupid that it scares him so, so much, because he could be dropped any instant. At the moment, Tony is so done, so utterly defeated, that he makes the conscious decision not to care. If he has to fall, then so be it; it can’t be worse than this feeling he’s been carrying around for so damn long.  
  
Tony is falling asleep when Gamora takes one of his hands—the bandaged one—and holds it between hers. She’s drawing idle figures on the fabric and skin, probably needing something to do to pass the time.  
  
‘‘I had a Bucky Bear when I was a kid,’’ Quill murmurs out of nowhere, squeezing Tony’s middle as if he wants to make sure Tony is awake to hear his words.  
  
‘‘Peter, shut—’’  
  
‘‘Me too,’’ Tony interrupts Gamora, his voice sounding even worse than Quill’s, what with how he’s hanging to consciousness by a thread. He gives Gamora’s hand a squeeze as an apology and he’s grateful when she returns it.  
  
He used to have a Bucky Bear when he was around four years old. Unfortunately, the toy Jarvis had bought Tony didn’t last long even if they had tried to hide it the safest way possible. Tony had been really careful with his teddy bear, making sure Howard never found out about his childish possession. Jarvis had tried to put the teddy back together but they weren’t able to find all the pieces. It isn’t the first time Tony wonders if Howard would have torn to tiny pieces his toy if it had been a Captain America plushy.  
  
“Tony,” Gamora says with a tone in her voice that Tony can only label as cautious. He makes a tiny sound at the back of his throat for her to know he’s listening. “Did Captain Rogers and Clint Barton attack you?” Tony can’t help the brusque snort that escapes him.  
  
“Yeah, right. How much time did I sleep?” That’s probably the worst way to cut someone off and then just ignore them. He opens an eye to determine how much he’s pissed Gamora off. “Oh, man, that’s a bold move,” Quill puts his two-cents in but he sounds amused.  
  
Gamora is looking at him with a raised eyebrow but the expression starts melting into something that almost resembles a smile. “You’re pouting and doing that ‘dog eyes’ thing.”  
  
“Puppy eyes,” Quill corrects swiftly. “Oh, is he?” And he’s suddenly hovering over Tony, inspecting his face. “Wow, that face is just a masterpiece. Adorable.”  
  
Tony burrows his face in the pillow with an annoyed grunt. Gamora pushes Quill back on the bed—he doesn’t waste any time and adopts his previous position, clutching Tony between his arms. “Just tell me if you want me to go cuddle someone else,” Quill says like it’s the most normal of things and Tony it’s on the brink of shouting “no.” Really, what is going on here?  
  
“I promise I’ll take you out. I mean that I’ll show you around. The touring,” Tony hurries to correct himself.  
  
“Don’t worry about that,” Quill reassures him at the same time that Gamora pets his hair applying some more pressure. Tony hopes that’s her own way of expressing the same sentiment Quill just voiced. “I wanna sleep.”  
  
“You’re a brat,” Gamora says but that’s the end of it and Tony is pretty sure Quill has already fallen asleep.  
  
Tony eyes Gamora for a moment, wondering why she isn’t trying to sleep, too. Well, she doesn’t have to feel comfortable on Tony’s bed even if it’s big enough for a football team to take a nap on it.  
  
It dawns on him then, that, perhaps, she’s keeping watch. She looks like a warrior, a soldier, so it’s possible that…  
  
“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, her voice invading his musings like a sledgehammer. Fuck, this headache. “Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff are requesting for me to personally ask you if you’re doing well.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Sam Wilson and—”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Tony grunts, his face pressing hard against the pillow like that will make the migraine go away. “Tell them I’m fine.”  
  
After a short pause, F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, “Natasha Romanoff says ‘You’re not fine but at least you’re conscious. Don’t worry; we won’t go to your rooms.’”  
  
Tony is about to laugh when the sudden reminder that Natasha knew as well as Steve about the Winter Soldier killing his parents. That’s a thought that strips anything away from its fun.  
  
Only five minutes after the interruption, F.R.I.D.A.Y. speaks up again. “Mister Parker is requesting entrance to your rooms, boss.”  
  
Tony doesn’t even wait for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to finish that sentence before he’s already out of the bed, standing on unsteady feet, sight blurry, and unsure of what he’s doing besides chanting “no, no, don’t let him here, he can’t see me like this.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
There’s a hand guiding Tony back on the bed and he lets himself fall on the mattress. Tremors are shaking his body, even when there’s the pressure of a blanket over his shoulders. The presences at his right and left are more effective, though.  
  
“Um,” Quill mutters with uncertainty at his left, one hand borrowed in his pants’ pocket. “Sometimes, when I can’t sleep or don’t feel well, I listen to music.” Tony is pretty sure this is the first time he’s heard or seen Quill this hesitant. Most of the time he has this cocksure, almost brash energy that pours out of him in waves. It’s not like Tony really knows him, though.  
  
Quill finally gets out what he was looking for: a Zune. “You want one?” Quill asks him, raising one of the earphones.  
  
“You know that’s actually ancient, right?” Tony hears his own dull voice say; it sounds miles away. Tony is aware that he’s having some kind of regression, his almost stable state returning to a one of numbness.  
  
He hears a snort at his right—he had forgotten for a moment that Gamora was here, too. “I’m a futurist and an inventor… an engineer, too. I… I have a reputation,” he says with faux indignation.  
  
“Don’t worry, Tony,” Gamora says and her voice has such a silky cadence Tony feels pulled out of his numbness and pushed into a dream—a good one. Maybe he just needs to sleep for a day or two. “It won’t get out of here.”  
  
Quill is still offering him the earphone—the other one already in his own ear—and Tony finally yields. It’s actually not that hard.  
  
_What shall we use/To fill the empty/Spaces_  
  
“Oh,” Tony vocalizes his surprise. “Wouldn’t have guessed you like _Pink Floyd_.”  
  
“I don’t dislike them,” Quill says with a shrug. “Thought you would like them.” At that moment Tony’s stomach does something really weird, like a backflip. At his left Gamora is humming the song under her breath.  
  
_Okay. This is most definitely a dream._  
  
Tony furrows his brow and gives the room a once over, waiting for something to confirm his suspicions. Nothing happens.  
  
When _Pink Floyd_ gives way to… _A-Ha_ (the song isn’t even _Take On Me_ , Jesus) and that one to _The Mamas & the Papas_, Quill says “I didn’t want to come back to Earth because of my mom’s death.” His tone is deliberately light. “Her name was Meredith. She died of cancer when I was eight. It turned out that my biological father used his celestial powers to cause the brain cancer because he was getting too attached,” he finishes with a disgusted scoff. “Killed him, obviously, when I found out, and on account of that saved some planets.”  
  
Tony doesn’t know what to say to that, how to express into words the ache in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he settles on saying, words tumbling out of his mouth and voice cracking at the end of the sentence. Quill answers with a single shrug but Tony can see the tense lines around his eyes and mouth, his lips pursed. He looks away when Quill’s eyes look too damp.  
  
Tony puts his palms between his knees, already hunching his shoulders, when he feels Quill’s shoulder bump against his own. When he looks up, he’s holding the earphone that Tony hasn’t notice falling from his ear. He takes it with a wan smile; Cat Stevens is singing a song too joyful for the mercurial mood he’s in right now, but he enjoys the music, nonetheless.  
  
“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in again after some time, and to Tony’s expert ears she sounds reluctant to continue.  
  
“Hmm?” When did he rest his head on Gamora’s shoulder? Should he not do that? Tony is pretty sure she would have done something about it if she wanted him to get away from her. If that was the case, she wouldn’t be holding his hand, right? God, when did they do that? Where was Tony for the past… however time has passed? His hands feel clammy but neither one of the two is letting go of Tony’s palms.  
  
“Steve Rogers is requesting entrance to your rooms. Do you want me to deny him access to the floor?’’  
  
‘‘No.’’ Because he finally admits defeat, Tony deflates and waits for Steve to reach his bedroom.  
  
Maybe this is a dream, after all—Steve is the one constant in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If this chapter had a title it would be “Touches”)
> 
> It pains me to call Tony a “disgusting mess” even if it’s his fucked up self-esteem talking. And the Tony hurt/comfort was kinda hard and slow to write because it looks like I, just like Marvel, have some difficulty when it comes to not making Tony suffer :/
> 
> I LOVE writing dreams, really, I always have to have at least one dream-scene if I’m writing a long story.
> 
> And I want to thank TheQuarterLifeCrisis for their when-the-fuck-are-you-going-to-post-the-next-chapter comment which coerced me to sit my ass down and finish this.
> 
> (Guys I literally have to contain myself from starting to post my Wolfstar fic, I just love it too much)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking but never enough. The boys needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fuckin' painful to write, guys, my heart hurts. I hope you like it.

Tony hears Steve’s steps in the silence of his apartment long before he reaches the door and opens it. His body tenses slightly even when he’s expecting it, and then tries not to make a big deal of it. Gamora and Quill aren’t holding his hands anymore but at least they’re still flanking him, making him feel like there is someone on his corner.  
  
Steve enters the room with visible uncertainty, more so when he spots the other two people in the room. He rapidly masks his surprise and salutes them with an awkward wave of his hand and a stilted “hi.” Gamora addresses him with a polite “Captain Rogers” while Quill stammers an embarrassing “CaptainAmericaSir” and then tries to school his expression into something resembling solemnity. Steve regards him with an uncomfortable glance so it must not have worked.  
  
Steve gives a step further into the room and toward the bed but doesn’t do more than that. Tony is pretty sure that Gamora and Quill weren’t holding themselves so still minutes ago.  
  
“Your asshole friend,” Quill says with a tone completely different from the one he had been using with Tony minutes ago or the one to address Steve. This one doesn’t waver and doesn’t give space to interruptions or misunderstandings, but still has a little pinch of cockiness. “The one with the bow, he’s not coming, right?”  
  
Steve frowns and Tony is sure there’s going to be shouting and perhaps even insults, a dispute, and he will have to intervene… but he doesn’t feel capable of giving more. He’s pretty sure his brain would rather black out than deal with more drama.  
  
“No, Clint is not with me,” Steve surprises him saying. He looks tired, too, with his red-rimmed and puffy eyes contrasting against his pale face. Tony thinks for the first time: “God, but he’s just a kid.” He remembers then—and it hits him like a ton of bricks—that Steve is in his early thirties… and what has he been doing apart from fighting for one cause or another?  
  
Of course everyone forgets how young Steve really is. When you look at Steve— _really_ look at his face—, you can see that there is something wrong in his eyes. It’s like they don’t belong there, don’t belong to that body but to someone else entirely, someone who has lived more lives than they can count. But it’s just that he’s seen too much, too soon.  
  
His hands are held behind his back. When he catches Tony trying to figure out what he’s hiding, he puts them in sight. “Um,” he says, looking down at them where he’s spinning a tube of something. “I see you’ve taken care of it.” Tony doesn’t understand what he means at first but then it clicks.  
  
“Actually, it’s best to coat the burns with it.” Damn, she’s sharp; Gamora is already on her feet. Steve passes her the burn ointment, giving two more steps to get closer to the bed—the guilt is clear on his face when Quill removes the bandage, which is dumb since none of it was his fault. He must misinterpret Tony’s expression because Steve gives him a forced half-smile and says, “Miss Potts, right?”  
  
Right. Pepper stashing burn ointment all over the compound, everywhere but in his lab. Even in Steve’s rooms.  
  
“You should probably have a doctor see that but I’m pretty sure that’s not something you usually do,” Quill says with a knowing smile. Tony frowns at him but doesn’t say anything.  
  
“I wanted to speak with you,” Steve says after the wound has been redressed. He’s doing that unconscious thing where he tries to make himself small, appear harmless. It must be hard to achieve when you’re built like a brick shithouse. What Tony notices, too, is that Gamora has tensed at his side again, something that Steve has noticed, as well, he’s sure of it. Quill shifts forward and closer to Tony.  
  
Steve gets to surprise him again when he opens his mouth and says, “They can stay if you want.” Steve shuffles his feet and finally raises his eyes from where they have been scrutinizing the floorboards, and looks at Tony—there’s a little half-smile, insecure and awkward that doesn’t last long. “I just… I want you to feel… comfortable.” But Tony hears what Steve actually wants to say: secure. Safe.  
  
The thing is, Tony doesn’t feel threatened by Steve, not in the sense that he fears for his physical well-being. Okay, he can understand where he’s coming from but Steve and Barnes weren’t the only ones throwing punches—actually, he was the one who started it and the two of them were only trying to make it out alive or at least as uninjured as possible.  
  
Tony can feel three pairs of eyes on him, waiting for him to make a decision. “Could you… could you leave us alone?” He doesn’t really want to be alone with Steve but he knows they have some things to discuss and the two newcomers don’t have to put up with more of their shit. Tony isn’t sure what is exactly that scares him of the idea of being in the same space as Steve and no one else around to put them in check.  
  
“Of course,” Quill says without any other additional comment. He squeezes Tony’s shoulder and heads for the door where he waits for Gamora. When she reaches him, Gamora says over her shoulder with a feigned nonchalance, “We’ll be outside.”  
  
Tony is pretty sure that was a shudder that traveled down Steve’s spine.  
  
The silence and stillness that follows it’s like being placed in the eye of a hurricane.  
  
“I want to start with an apology,” Steve breaks the silence. Tony only gives a noncommittal hum. Steve clears his throat and winces at the noise it creates. “To apologize for my poor excuse of an apology.”  
  
Steve digs into the pocket of his pajamas to extract the burner phone. Tony stares at the black rectangle for a moment too long until he gets his own out of his pants. Steve’s eyebrows rise to his hairline when he sees the device. “Um. I.” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you kept it.” Tony doesn’t know what to say to that so he stays silent.  
  
An awkward silence falls over the bedroom, something Tony’s been dreading since the moment F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced Steve’s presence. So he has to fill it somehow. “So. Where is Kika Superwitch?”  
  
Steve’s brow knits with visible confusion but either way he says, “Don’t know who that is but I assume you’re talking about Wanda.”  
  
“It’s a German book and TV show. Here it’s actually called Lilly the Witch but… You know, it doesn’t matter. Yes, Wanda.” He’s spent too much time watching kids’ shows with Erin’s step-daughter, whose mother is from Spain and wants her daughter not to forget the language, so she tends to watch the shows with Spanish dubbing. Tony is clearly not about to tell Steve this.  
  
“She’s on another mission.” A pause and fuck this is painfully awkward by now and Tony wants for someone to come and remove him from the situation. Where are all the villains when you need them? “She would have come with us if she had been in Wakanda when King T’Challa told us, you know?”  
  
“You don’t have to reassure me, Steve; it’s not going to hurt my feelings.” He doesn’t say that she would have come for Vision.  
  
They aren’t looking at each other but out the window, that’s why they both catch the lightning that strikes when a storm starts. Tony can see on Steve’s face that he is thinking about the same person as him while observing the dark clouds and the pouring rain.  
  
“I wouldn’t blame her,” Tony adds as an afterthought, not really thinking about what’s coming out of his mouth, by now. Steve’s face is a picture; his eyes wide open and mouth agape, incredulous. “You saw where they kept her, right?”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault—”  
  
“I don’t care,” Tony cuts him sharply. “They put her in a straightjacket and—” He takes a moment when a wave of nausea raises. “And an _electroshock collar_.”  
  
“I know.” Steve finally looks at him, his eyes hard and the muscles of his face rigid. “I saw her—I had to get it off of her. It’s still not your fault, Tony.”  
  
Tony grimaces but decides not to speak any further about that matter. “Where is your BBF?”  
  
“BBF?” Steve is probably getting annoyed by now—this is familiar.  
  
‘‘Yeah, best boyfriend forever. You know, kinda like BFF. Where is your other half? He liking it here?’’ Tony hopes his words aren’t carrying any spite; he really does because it wouldn’t be fair. And that’s not how he really feels.  
  
Steve shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his body visibly tensing up, just like the muscles of his jaw. Tony is already catching on Steve’s protectiveness over his and Barnes’ relationship. “Um.” _God, this is going to be mortifying_ , he thinks, gearing up to say what has to be said. “I wasn’t spying on you two.” Tony tries to catch Steve’s eye but he’s probably just as embarrassed as Tony.  
  
“I didn’t know you two were there and I was in the kitchen and then I heard you…” he trails off. “Sorry about that.” Steve is nodding his head but his brow is creased and now his arms are protectively crossed in front of his chest. “No one else knows.” The shock on Steve’s face is enough confirmation for Tony.  
  
“You don’t have to tell me about it.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to.” There is that antagonism Tony was expecting, though not for the reason he would have imagined. Steve runs a hand over his face, his shoulders dropping when he lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Sorry, Tony, it’s just…” With his hands on his hips, Steve changes his weight from one foot to another. “Th-this thing we have with Buck, it’s just… God...”  
  
Steve turns on his heels and Tony is about to jump from the bed and stop him, when he realizes he’s not going anywhere. The man runs his hands through his hair with obvious frustrations and then faces Tony, his eyes filled now with something like determination.  
  
“It’s new, that’s what it is, and unknown because of a lot of factors. But. But I’m not here to talk about… my,” Steve clears his throat, “love life.”  
  
“You’re really bad at this, Rogers,” Tony says but there isn’t any judgment or heat behind the words and he is grateful when Steve makes the effort of giving him a smile, no matter how forced it is.  
  
“I’m bad at Bucky, that’s what I’m bad at,” he says self-deprecatingly, ending that particular conversation.  
  
“Okay. I get it,” Tony says quietly.  
  
Steve looks at him for a long moment, considering Tony carefully. The range of emotions that pass through his face is perplexing and Tony feels lost when Steve finally straightens up (like a man that is about to face a firing squad, it’s what crosses his mind) and strides to the bed. And just sits at Tony’s left side, leaving enough space so not to crowd the engineer, make him feel trapped. It’s ironic, because Tony feels like Steve is miles away and the air between them is as cold as the rain beating against the windows.  
  
“I’m sorry, Tony.” Steve is looking him directly in the eye, the earnest voice and eyes enough for Tony to want to avert his gaze, but he forces himself to stay still and focused. “Not only for lying to you but for all those times I didn’t trust you or didn’t show you the respect you deserved—the profound respect I feel for you.”  
  
Steve’s lips remain parted; he appears to be willing the words to unstick off of his throat but not getting really far. He clamps his mouth shut with something like irritation marring his features and his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.  
  
“O-or the times I didn’t show you how much you mean to me, how much I value you.” Steve makes a pause, his eyes skimming across Tony’s face as if he’s searching for something specific. “I don’t think I ever showed you—”  
  
Steve cuts himself off, his eyes sliding off Tony’s face and getting lost in the rising storm. His mouth is open in astonishment. “I’ve never told you how much I care about you.” His voice sounds suddenly rougher—he sounds _gutted_ and it’s making Tony feel inadequate because he hasn’t done that either.  
  
“I haven’t either.” The words make Steve look at him again, shaking his head like trying to get rid of a thought.  
  
“Pretty sure I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway,” is the answer he gives, a wan smirk curling his lips. “Especially not after last year.”  
  
“Where are you trying to go with this, Steve?” Tony finally asks the question because the rolling of his stomach and the spinning of his head caused by this unexpected conversation—this uncharted territory they’re going through—is starting to be too much.  
  
Steve’s hands curl and uncurl at his sides like there is something he is not letting himself do and it’s making him restless. He turns his torso so he is fully facing Tony.  
  
“It may sound stupid,” Steve begins saying, a hand nervously rubbing at his beard, “but, for me, the most unbelievable part is not that I got powers out of a bottle or slept seventy years in ice and woke up in the future.” Steve looks at him with intense blue eyes, like he wants Tony to understand the significance of his words.  
  
“But waking up in the future and finding a family. Me, Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, the ill kid who didn’t have anything… except for his friend Bucky.” Steve makes a short pause and adds with a soft voice that catches in his throat when he says, “And I found him, too. And I want both because I’m selfish. I want my family— _you_ —and Bucky. I want to keep both... or at least make it up to one.”  
  
There’s a lot to unpack in that speech but it strikes Tony that Steve actually thinks he is being selfish for wanting something like that. It shouldn’t be that way. There is so much Tony wants to say but all the words are either trying to make it out of his mouth at the same time or just hiding in some far corner of his mind.  
  
“I know I don’t deserve it, Tony,” Steve continues when he doesn’t say anything. “And I know I should have done better. I could have told you about your parents when I found out; we could have talked the Accords out and found a middle ground; maybe we could have even found Bucky together and Zemo’s plan wouldn’t have worked out.”  
  
Steve finally lets his head hang, a hand rubbing at his eyes. Tony lets himself imagine how things would have ended if the universe had chosen a different turn.  
  
“I know it’s stretching it but…” It doesn’t seem Steve knows how to end that sentence so he just lets it go. He looks at Tony, expectant, but Tony finds himself mute, the words Steve’s spoken not finding a place to settle in his mind. Steve huffs a breath. ‘‘About the Accords… I understand that you had a legitimate reason to do what you did, one that you believed in, and I respect that. I’ve always respected you, Tony, and always will.  
  
But I couldn’t sign them, not after what happened with S.H.I.E.L.D., and then Bucky…”  
  
His eyes bore into Tony with vehemence when he fills his lungs with air before saying with an overwrought voice, ‘‘I did what I thought I had to do—the option of leaving Bucky behind didn’t even exist.’’  
  
‘‘I know.’’ It’s the first thing Tony can make himself articulate. Steve looks surprised. Now that he’s started, Tony decides is a good moment to get it out. “I don’t blame Barnes for what happened to them. I understand it wasn’t him but HYDRA—the Winter Soldier.” Tony notices the instant but fleeting expression of pain that takes over Steve’s face. It’s still in his eyes even when he adopts a neutral one.  
  
“I can even understand where you were coming from—not the way you ended up doing things, but I get it, Steve, I do.” Steve nods his head, a frown pinching his brow. Tony gives himself a minute before continuing. ‘‘I trust you with my life when it comes to fighting—even now—but I can’t trust you in my personal life, don’t ask that from me.’’ The words feel like sandpaper scraping against his throat.  
  
Steve’s body turns away from Tony, recoiling from the words, but what Tony gets out of the expression in the man’s face is that he was already expecting that answer—still, it hurts all the same. Steve just nods his head once, his elbows on his knees and eyes fixated on the floor. Tony has the stupid need to clasp Steve’s trembling hands (which are holding one another) between his own.  
  
“Okay. Okay, I understand. I get it. But I will try t-to earn your trust.” Tony doesn’t say anything to that, not when Steve turns his face away from him to dry not so subtly his face in his sleeve. Tony feels like he could just fall apart and the only thing that’s holding him together is the certainty that Steve has something else to say.  
  
“I don’t know how I’ll do it, Tony, but… I just know that even if it takes years I will make it up to you. I won’t let you down again. Just tell me how to do it.”  
  
Tony stares at him, not sure what he’s supposed to do or say. The only thing he knows is that the room is too bright, too warm, his head is spinning. Steve is asking him something that doesn’t make much sense to him now but he wants to answer, to live up to that image Steve has of him. He doesn’t want to be the one responsible of wiping out that hopeful expression.  
  
Tony’s spent a year making up different scenarios in his head where Steve and he sit down to talk out all the shit they didn’t when they had to. Now, that moment has actually come and he has Steve in front of him, saying so much more than he’s ever expected, apologizing, _asking_ for his forgiveness and not the other way around like Tony almost always imagined (except that _one_ time he let his imagination run wild)—he has no idea what to do. There’s no contingency plan for this.  
  
“I don’t know,” he makes himself choke out the words, the only truth he has to offer.  
  
Steve backs off on the bed, enough to have some space to take a good look at Tony. It’s enough to make Tony twitch on his seat. His right hand clenches around the comforter with a vice-like grip, keeping him from moving.  
  
“That’s more than I could have asked for, Tony. If you have to give it some thought, if you need time… I understand.” Tony blinks his eyes, drawing air into his lungs. Steve thinks they can mend this? Steve is telling him Tony is the one calling the shots? “I just want you to know that I’ll be there when you need me and will back off when you tell me.”  
  
Tony doesn’t know what his expression must convey, but Steve is looking at him with bright eyes.  
  
_There’s a way to fix this? Not just the Avengers as a team but_ us _?_  
  
Tony isn’t stupid, he knows that even if they give it a try it would take a long time and things will never be like before, but this is still the world giving him his family back—he doesn’t care how battered they are, how much effort it will take.  
  
“I’ll think about it.” His voice doesn’t give out the turmoil inside of him. This draws out of Steve his first real smile and Tony thinks it’s worth it.  
  
“You’ll think about it.” It’s not a question but Steve repeating words he can’t believe are real. He wonders, if Steve was so sure that Tony would reject whatever he had to say, why did he go to such lengths as to speak with him anyway, even when it so obviously upset him? “Thank you, Tony.”  
  
Tony nods once, turning his head to the door behind which Quill and Gamora should still be. He wants them here at his sides, holding him. And he wants Steve, too. Tony, just as Steve, didn’t think he could have more than one of the things he yearns for.  
  
Steve is the one who takes the initiative and slides closer. He raises his hand and places it hesitantly on Tony’s arm when the man doesn’t pull away, rubbing it and then squeezing, like he has to make sure Tony is real. Slowly but steadily, his arm wraps around Tony’s shoulders and then the other. And suddenly Tony is engulfed by 200 pounds of supersoldier, arms around him, chest to chest, and Steve’s face in his hair. It hurts, but hurts just like a wound being disinfected. For the first time in so, _so_ long his head goes quiet, his thoughts stilling. It’s heaven.  
  
He’s not forgetting everything that happened, but he just wants to feel safe for a little bit, to let himself have this. Tony clings to him with the same necessity as Steve and spares a thought to wonder who of the two is sniffling and who is trembling.  
  
They spend a good chunk of time in that position. Even if Tony can’t make the words out, he is certain that the babbling that is coming out of Steve’s mouth is a litany of apologies and promises.  
  
‘‘I’m leaving the Avengers—retiring, actually. I wanted you to know before I speak with the others,’’ Steve says with shaky tone—it gives the impression that he’s been waiting a long time to get the words out, making it sound like a confession.  
  
Tony blinks the tears away, his brain still processing the words that just came out of Steve’s mouth. He looks at the blonde man then with a confused frown, needing to be assured that his ears caught the right words. “Not sure we still go by that name, though,” Steve says under his breath, probably not intending for Tony to hear.  
  
‘‘Why are you telling me?’’ What else should he say? He feels like the rug has been pulled from under his feet.  
  
‘‘I don’t know, it just felt right.’’  
  
Tony’s gaze is avoiding Steve and it looks like Steve is trying to understand why Tony is drawing away from him, shutting himself off. He doesn’t know how to feel but there is something acidic churning in his stomach and spreading through his body. Steve is… leaving. He already left a year ago but this, _this_ is different—is definitive. Tony doesn’t know what to do with this information. He doesn’t—he just—  
  
All this time, through all these months Tony has been trying to lie and tell himself these thoughts haven’t been roaming his mind, he’s still been keeping hope alive that things could be mended somehow. But, Jesus fuck, Steve just confirmed that he’s leaving for good and with him all the others, and all hope is being rapidly bled out of him. Bruce is not coming back; Thor obviously doesn’t have time for them; Rhodey and Pepper must be already getting fed up with all this superhero crap Tony is involved with.  
  
Why did Steve tell him all this bullshit about fixing and apologizing and wanting to make things right and… and… Does he think this is funny? Why? Just… why…  
  
“Boss—” the voice pushes through the haze.  
  
“Tony, you with me?”  
  
He tries to pull away from whoever is holding his face still but then he blinks and his sight isn’t obstructed by moisture anymore.  
  
“Boss, I would recommend diaphragmatic breathing since it allows full oxygen exchange in the lungs.”  
  
“What?” he rasps, his eyes darting around the room and then coming back to rest on Steve’s face, twisted with anguish.  
  
“Breathe, Tony, you gotta breathe.”  
  
What? He’s breathing, of course he’s breathing. What is Steve doing kneeling in front of him?  
  
His vision is getting blurry. Black.  
  
Tony’s body finally does the work for him and his mouth opens wide, letting in the oxygen. He doubles over, the dizziness proving to be too much. He coughs and swallows one hungry breath after another. Steve’s hand is rubbing his back in circles, not leaving his post in front of Tony.  
  
“Shit,” Steve breathes the word out. “Fuck, Tony, you scared the hell outta me.”  
  
Even when his heart is pounding a deafening tune in his chest and temples, and he feels hollowed out, Tony rasps out, “Captain America swearing just for me; I must be special.”  
  
Steve stares at him with incredulity, probably asking himself what he’s still doing in this clown’s bedroom. “Yeah, damn right you are. Ass.” He gets off his knees and makes himself comfortable in the spot he just vacated. He draws Tony closer and doesn’t let go. “What was that, Tony?” he asks, somber.  
  
Tony scoffs at that, no matter how hypocritical it makes him that he isn’t getting away from the safe space that is Steve. “First you tell me you want to set things right and then you say you’re leaving.” It’s too warm in here—Steve’s metabolism turning him into a furnace and all—but Tony is taking as much as he can get.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Tony wants to punch him—punch him right in the face. But for that, he would need an ounce of strength and to sit up, and right now he’s melting into the touch. But on the other hand, Tony wants to make Steve promise him he will stay, at least for one more day—thankfully, his trap stays shut.  
  
“Tony, I didn’t say I was going to leave the planet.” Tony just grunts. “Hey, look at me.” Tony imagines himself batting Steve’s hand away from his cheek because right now his muscles feel like lead. His body feels like an obsolete machine.  
  
“Tony?” It’s like he’s slipping away. He draws strength from where isn’t any and wills his arms to hold onto Steve. He nudges his head under his chin, cold chills running up and down his back. Steve lets out a pained breath. ‘‘I’m sorry it’s me. I’m sorry there isn’t someone better here. I’m so sorry.’’ Tony just holds tighter.  
  
“Boss, your temperature has been increasing for the last hour.” He hears someone curse near his ear and then he’s being shaken into full awareness. “The elevated body temperature is probably induced by stress. Chronic stress, since your cortisol levels have been running high for a concerning period of time.” Tony doesn’t like the tone of recrimination. Is his A.I. reprimanding him _and_ in front of other people? That’s not cool.  
  
“Don’t listen to her,” Tony forces his throat to work, the slurred words almost not making it into something understandable. This day has proven to be one of the shittiest of his life. “She likes to blow things out of proportions.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s it, Tony.” What would Steve know, right?  
  
‘‘It seems your immune system has been weakened—”  
  
“No more chime-ins for you, young lady.” He sounds drunk. Ugh. His head is drooping and if it wasn’t for Steve’s hands holding it in place, he would already have fallen forward.  
  
“I would advise for you to rest and drink plenty of water, and also take an ibuprofen to bring down the fever.” Did he specify in her programming to _blatantly_ disregard every one of his commands? Did Pepper make this A.I.?  
  
“Hey, Tony, open your eyes.” Tony shakes his head with a moan. “I’m going to go for the Advil, okay? Do you want me to call your friends?” Tony shakes his head with a moan—doing anything else feels like too big of an effort. He’s definitely going to puke and he doesn’t want them to—oh, right, too late for that.  
  
His head is resting against Steve’s chest when he ignores Tony and asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to “please call Tony’s friends.” Tony tries to headbutt him but it ends up being more of a nuzzling gesture than a violent strike to his sternum. Steve must think that Tony is about to slip dead to the floor because he supports his head with one hand and his frame with his other arm.  
  
“Is he okay?” is Quill who asks.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“No.” That’s rude. “Could you get him in bed while I go for some Advil? He has a fever.”  
  
_Shut up, Steve._  
  
“Sure,” responds Gamora and _okay that’s not cool_ , it’s not cool to just pass the ill guy around like he weighs nothing.  
  
“You don’t; you’re tiny.”  
  
“Fry, sent the Iron Legion to escort Quill out of the premises.” Tony hopes he said that out loud and at least half of it was understandable.  
  
He spends at least five hours looking at the ceiling before he asks, “Where’s Steve?”  
  
“He went for some medicine,” answers Quill. This is good; he likes it when there are people with him. (In his mind flashes the image of a cat curled in a cardboard box. What does that have to do with anything, brain? Get it together.)  
  
“You sure he’s coming back? Why is he taking so long?” Tony whines. Why is that shadow on the far right corner of the bedroom looking at him? Why are there so many shadows?  
  
“He just stepped out of the room, Tony,” Gamora states.  
  
“Ah.”  
  
He’s almost asleep, listening to Quill and Gamora’s voice while they chat when Steve finally returns. “That took forever.”  
  
“What?” Steve falters on his step. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Tony grunts in response.  
  
“Yeah, he’s reverted to grunts,” Gamora clarifies before Steve’s preoccupied look. “He’s a brat.”  
  
“Hey, we have that in common!” Quill exclaims like it’s something to be proud of.  
  
When Steve places the box of Advil and cup of water on the nightstand, Gamora gives Quill a look and the two of them get off the bed. Gamora gives Tony an unexpected but not unwelcomed kiss on the forehead; when Tony pulls a challenging smirk off that he directs at Quill, the man just answers with one of his own and bends down to imitate Gamora’s gesture.  
  
When they’re finally out of the room, he catches Steve’s small smile; the man immediately averts his gaze and Tony can swear even from the distance that his cheeks turn red. Steve helps him swallow the medicine and then lets him slip under the covers again. Tony arches a brow when Steve circles the room with uncertainty. He finally reaches the bed and sits at Tony’s right, his back against the headboard. Steve only needs a minute to slip down and lie comfortably on the bed.  
  
“Does that happen a lot?” Even with his muzzy mind, Tony doesn’t need Steve to clarify what he is exactly asking. He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes closed. He feels Steve’s palm over the covers rubbing his arm in a soothing manner. “I’ll be here for whatever you need me.”  
  
Tony doesn’t know if he means it for the present time or…  
  
He doesn’t have enough time to finish the thought before he’s finally fallen asleep. Luckily, this time for more than an hour.  
  
_______

Steve blinks his eyes open. The first thing he sees is Tony, turned on his side and facing him, his face finally relaxed after the unending troubles and misery. The look suits him. He gives himself a moment to shake the sleep off and then makes himself leave the bed. It’s then that he hears the voices that must have woken him up. Steve gets to the door and opens it just a smidge to peer out.  
  
“But I don’t get why you’re here,” Quill is asking Drax. Gamora is lounging on an armchair, reading a book. She doesn’t seem interested in anything else beyond the pages.  
  
“Because I want to see Tony Stark.”  
  
“But why?” Quill presses on with a face scrunched with skepticism.  
  
“Because I want to,” Drax repeats doggedly, a frown on his face.  
  
“He’s okay, Drax, don’t worry,” is Gamora who says, a foot dangling from the arm of her seat. The pale light of the morning sun makes her odd hair glow. Again, Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil.  
  
“It wasn’t that difficult,” Drax mutters when he leaves the door, glancing at Quill with his deep frown before shutting the door.  
  
Steve decides to lie back on the bed and rest his eyes for a minute.

He wakes up again when the door is shut. He blinks his eyes in confusion and relaxes his muscles when he catches Gamora’s smile. Quill is sitting on Tony’s side of the bed.  
  
“Um. Hey,” Steve greets them while rubbing at his irritated eyes.  
  
“Hey,” Quill replies and Gamora follows with a similar salute. Quill doesn’t look as uptight as before; seeing Captain America drooling in his sleep must have done the trick.  
  
Steve gets up and starts stretching his arms and back. (He acts as if he hasn’t seen Gamora eyeing his form and Quill doing the same, shaking his head, and then frowning at the woman.)  
  
“I have to go but, uh, would you stay with Tony? I don’t think he should wake up alone.”  
  
When he’s turning back to them, Quill has already climbed over the covers and Gamora has her fingers gently running through Tony’s hair. There is no possible way for Steve to hide the smile the scene pulls out of him. These people have known Tony for only a handful of days and they’re already behaving around him like he’s something precious and worth caring for. It’s far from strange for Steve. He gets it.  
  
He ducks out of the room with a smile on his face and a heart full of renewed hope—not only for him but for Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t like Steve, but she knows he will take care of Tony when he won’t take care of himself.
> 
> At some point I actually wrote more than 3k words in one day which is a first for me and I’ve been writing for 10 years.
> 
> I want you guys to know two things:
> 
> 1) I love reading your comments; they're literally the best thing and they cheer me up after work. I’m not saying everyone who reads this should post a comment but that’s exactly what I’m saying.  
> 2) There’s no reason for you to have noticed (for that you would have to had read the fic more than once) but I’m constantly editing the story. Most of the time I’m fixing punctuation and grammar, but a lot of times I’ve changed entire sentences or added new ones. BUT nothing important enough to change the story.
> 
> And thanks for all the attention you're giving my fic!!
> 
> (There’s no need for it but you guys could totally recommend this fic to your friends or somewhere in the internet *that one moon emoji* *wink wink*)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make you guys wait a little longer but I’m just that good.

Bucky likes to read; he’s not sure if it’s something he used to like _before_. It isn’t even one of the first things he discovered that he enjoyed (that position was for not being given orders and handed weapons by people he didn’t know) but he does like it, nonetheless. He likes the feel of the page under his fingers, the sound when it’s turned, the weight in his hands. Right now, he likes how the ink is being illuminated by the sunlight. Reading is a good and efficient way to distract his mind from whatever that may be lurking in it.

Bucky looks out of the floor to ceiling windows, remembering the fresh air when he stepped out, still smelling of rain and ozone (although, that’s probably something only he and Steve can still smell lingering on the air.) For the moment, Bucky prefers the inside; the sun warming his arms (it still amazes him that the new arm can sense that) and feet, and the silence giving him some time to relax.

Even if he actually feels like a leech; taking advantage of a situation. Because, _clearly_ , there’s no place for him here, in Tony Stark’s property. He really wants to just believe Steve, that this is something to be expected of the billionaire, but it’s kinda hard to when you’re the brainwashed assassin that killed the man’s parents when he was a teenager, and then said man tried to kill you when he found out.

Bucky catches steps in the distance and shifts on his seat on the armchair. The steps are hurried and the person starts walking faster when they’re approaching the kitchen. Bucky recognizes the pace just by hearing it and has a slight idea who it must be; he leaves the book on the table—not caring to mark the page since the book isn’t his and he won’t finish it—and waits outside the kitchen door.

Steve turns a corner, a specific look and frown scrunching his face, and to Bucky it’s plain as day that he is distressed. He thought things would go well with Stark this time—not smoothly but…

Bucky pushes away from the wall and walks the few feet that separate them. He’s already opening his arms when Steve finally reaches Bucky and falls into him. Steve grips his back, folding himself into Bucky’s corners. What the fuck happened?

“I love you.”

_What the fuck happened???_

Bucky doesn’t know what to say; it’s not so much the words (which are a bit of a shock, too) but the fervor packed inside of them. At least his body knows what to do when so close to Steve’s; Bucky wraps him in his arms, clutching him tightly against his chest. (Thank God he reattached his arm and put on a shirt.) The feeling of Steve’s always tense muscles uncoiling against him… that’s something unparalleled to any other thing. He’s not so sure he’s done enough to be the one that makes Steve reach such sense of safety.

Steve’s lips mumble the three words against Bucky’s skin one final time. “I love you, too, Stevie,” Bucky says but there’s already a frown pinching his brow. It doesn’t ease when Steve sighs contently and then draws back with a sheepish smile. “Explain to me what is going on.”

“Nothing, just… I don’t really tell you how much you mean to me.”

 _Yeah, but it still sounds like saying the words is like pulling teeth_ , Bucky doesn’t say. At least Steve is trying to overcome his problem with showing feelings, right?

“Uh-huh.” Okay, that was probably a douchey (he’s getting with the times, all right?) response but this is a bit weird.

Steve looks insecure now, probably because of Bucky’s response, but despite that, he pushes on. “I’m really glad—I’m grateful you—I mean—” Yeah, that’s more like him; emotionally constipated as ever.

Steve’s hands travel up Bucky’s arms until one is cradling his nape and the other his cheek, his skin warming Bucky’s. It appears that Steve is gathering his thoughts. “You’ve always been there for me, even when you… weren’t.” Steve lowers his head but Bucky catches the sudden brightness in his eyes. His hands tighten where they are holding Bucky and Bucky’s own hands travel to the other man’s waist, clutching his shirt nervously. Steve finally pulls it together enough to raise his eyes. “When I had to make decisions, you were always in my mind. What would Bucky do? What would he tell me not to do? Would he yell at me for this if he was here?”

“Definitely. Probably even kick your ass.” The warmth inside of Bucky’s chest when Steve’s smile blooms would be enough to wake him up from any cryosleep.

“Even when you w-weren’t there, _you were_.” Bucky can tell how hard those words are to get out of him.

They must look like total dopes, standing in the middle of a hallway and blocking it because they’re too busy staring into each other’s eyes. The thought makes him smile slightly. Bucky rubs Steve’s sides in comforting circles, trying to relax the recently tensed muscles. Steve smiles when he realizes what Bucky is doing.

“Is that so?” Steve must have caught on his teasing tone because his smile sweetens and he nods his head. “Hey, do you remember that funny story?” Bucky says almost as an afterthought, a grin too broad to be sincere. The odd expression causes Steve’s brow to knit and Bucky wants to laugh at the perennial wrinkle. “That time you crashed a plane— _on purpose_ —on the North Pole?”

“Buck, come on, don’t start.” Despite the words, Steve is trying to fight off a smile but he’s losing the battle. Bucky’s smile is triumphant when Steve finally lets himself laugh. “'Cause that was fuckin' stupid, you fuckin' punk! Oh, and I’m pretty sure you weren’t considering my opinion when you did that.”

With a final laugh, Steve leans his forehead against Bucky’s collarbone and lowers his hands to rest against his lower back. He cards his fingers through the blonde locks, letting out a relieved sigh; this is not what he was expecting when he saw Steve’s expression but he’s grateful.

“They told me,” the words get out of Bucky’s mouth and he wishes for a way to make time turn back. He doesn’t want to shatter the peace but he wants to share with Steve the painful half-memory that just materialized in his head. It’s disgustingly selfish, he knows.

Steve doesn’t lift his head but Bucky hears the sound he makes at the back of his throat that encourages him to explain what he means with that. He tries to stay silent and not dump on Steve his fucked up reminiscence. “When I fell and they found me,” (there he is again, his muscles pulling tight as violin strings. _Give it a rest, pal._ ) “HYDRA told me about the crash.”

Steve’s breath is falling in heavy puffs against his skin; he obviously intends for Bucky not to notice how much the story is affecting him. Steve may be an idiot, but right now Bucky is the sick bastard that’s hurting him. Still, he can’t stop himself from running his mouth, not now that he’s started. “I wasn’t cooperating. I don’t know what shit I was screaming—I can’t remember—but I…” He knew this was going to hurt Steve, he knew and he didn’t stop. “I think I told them that Captain America was going to come for me,” Steve’s hands grip his sides with uncomfortable strength (Bucky doesn’t deserve to complain), fingers spasming the same way his broken breaths start coming out of his throat, “and they were going to regret ever touching me.

“They said you were dead. No one was coming for me.” He screws his eyes shut, knowing this is not the end but wishing it for Steve’s sake. “They used you… They used you against me even when you were dead.” Bucky’s breath hitches. He feels Steve move against him; first, his lips mouthing a series of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and then his whole body, rearranging itself so he’s enveloping as much of Bucky as possible—shielding him.

“I didn’t believe them at first. It couldn’t be possible that you were gone; after all the time I spent on keeping you alive.” The joke falls flat; Bucky isn’t sure it was a joke to begin with. “But then the weeks passed and no one was coming for me.” 

The sound that’s torn from Steve’s throat is raw and primal, an animal that’s just been mortally wounded. Bucky increases the pressure, wanting Steve closer, safe from the memories he’s tried to keep him far away from. There isn’t any space left between their bodies and Bucky still feels it’s wrong that they aren’t _closer_ —seventy years closer.

“I forgot you.” It feels like a dirty confession even when everyone already knew. “I won’t lie to you and say I remembered you but…” Bucky grants himself and Steve a short pause. He hides his damp face against Steve’s shoulder and seconds later remerges to continue with the shared torture. “There was a scientist, a new one—I don’t remember the year. He was replacing the previous one, who I think I killed. I remember that he wore glasses and needed an inhaler.”

“ _No no no no._ ” Bucky feels the word vibrating against the skin of his neck and drifting down his chest, the whimpers making their home inside him.

“I think they chose him on purpose. He was small, blonde…”

“ _No, no, please, no._ ” His shoulders are shaking; his head turning side to side in rhythm with his words.

If Bucky weren’t selfish, if he were a better man, a better friend, he would have stopped.

“But he was nothing like my Stevie.” He has to make it clear from the beginning; it’s important that Steve knows this. The words feel like shattered glass but at the same time, something poisonous is making its way out of his system—getting into Steve’s forever. “They would wipe me and I would look at him and just… even with my fried up brain, I would know I was forgetting something important. When I looked at him I thought I knew him; he was the only familiar thing in a sea of… nothing. I think that’s the reason I was so docile when he was the one doing the routine maintenance before and after missions.”

Steve isn’t moving anymore—it’s like hugging a statue made of stone—and not a sound is coming out of him.

“Everyone was so amazed by my behavior. They just loved it when I would not stop staring at the blonde scientist, not even when…” A needed pause and mouthful of air to fill his constricted-feeling lungs. “HYDRA’s scientists really like their experiments,” (he doesn’t know if he’s talking about himself or what they used to do to him), “and he wasn’t any different. They all were so _delighted_ when I didn’t attack him even when he was vicious—I didn’t even scowl at him… I think it made him feel powerful.”

Bucky doesn’t talk about how the guards would laugh at him and describe his expression as the one of a kicked puppy. He doesn’t always remember the Winter Soldier as _himself_ , something that makes remembering a little bit more bearable. However, the pain flooding his mind and the taste of ash weighing his tongue down doesn’t ease when the memories come.

The tension accumulated in Steve’s body is making him vibrate with it.

“Then, one day they woke me up from cryo and he wasn’t the one in charge of me. I didn’t know _he_ , specifically, wasn’t there, but that something wasn’t right.”

His chest hurts where is pressing against Steve’s, but he’s not sure if it isn’t something from the inside causing it. He just wants Steve to say something, do something—this _nothingness_ feels wrong.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you, Steve.” Bucky feels him trying to still his body. “Steve, please talk to me. Steve?”

Goddammit, he wasn’t expecting things to go so badly. Steve is petrified and Bucky would swear he isn’t breathing if it weren’t because he’s still on his feet. Maybe he just needs some time, just a moment for his brain to filter the information, analyze it, assimilate it—whatever crap his therapist says sometimes (Bucky doesn’t usually think about it as “crap”, though.)

“How can you…?” Bucky can’t feel a single positive emotion when Steve finally speaks, not when his voice cracks and sounds so vulnerable. The words sound muffled because he hasn’t moved an inch. “How can you even stand being near me?”

When Steve finally tries to peel himself from Bucky, he does so with trembling limbs—it’s like he’s trying to remove himself from a magnetic field even if it hurts. There’s something inside of Bucky, deep, deep in his mind, in his chest, and just _him_ , that is cracked wide open when Steve is in front of him and he gets to read his face. It’s something animalistic, the same thing that the Winter Soldier turned into when he tried to resist or outfight his makers.

“Steve, please don’t do this.” It was actually Bucky who made such a wreck of his friend, right? “Hey, look at me.” He’s shaking his head with tightly shut eyes, refusing to look at him. “ _Look at me_.” When he does, a whimper escapes both of them. Bucky strokes Steve’s jaw, kissing his cheeks, forehead, eyelids… there isn’t a patch of skin he doesn’t cover with his lips.

“Cut the bullshit, Steve.” Perhaps he would sound more authoritative if the words didn’t come out trembling. “We have already talked about this and it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

“My fault,” the words spill out of him. “It was my fault.”

“No, no. Stop.” But Steve is repeating it again, and again, and again. “Steve, look at me. I’m here. I’m okay, I’m safe.” Nothing. “I’m with you.”

Steve doesn’t open his eyes but Bucky catches his lips trembling when he tries to speak. “Are you going to come with me?” He swallows thickly and Bucky gives him a moment to find his voice. “Wherever I end up after this, will you be with me?”

“Steve—”

“You can choose the place, I don’t care as long as…” Steve makes a frustrated sound but can’t finish when something between a moan and a sob claws its way out of him.

“Of course, Steve. 'Till the end of the line.” He doesn’t even need to give it a second thought.

His hands are cupping Steve’s face, mainly so he won’t lose the eye contact, even if Steve is avoiding his eyes and looking at something positioned behind his head. He dries the tears rolling freely down his face and kisses the tip of his nose.

“I need to keep you safe,” Steve whispers absentmindedly.

“ _I_ need to keep you safe.” Steve looks at him with wide eyes. “We will keep each other safe, how does that sound?” Apparently, Steve can’t articulate a word so he settles on nodding frantically his head. His hands find their way to Bucky’s and he grips them hard.

“You gotta breathe,” Bucky instructs when Steve’s respirations turn even more erratic. “You’re getting dizzy, right? That’s because you are not breathing. Steve, open your eyes, pal, I’m here with you,” he has to remind him, afraid that his mind may be drifting somewhere else again, maybe some place where he won’t be able to reach him.

When Steve finally draws a breath, it sounds like he’s being strangled. “Just like that, doll.” There’s a sob and Steve’s face crumbles. Bucky doesn’t give himself up to heartbreak; he catches one of Steve’s hands on his own and places it over his chest. “That’s me breathing.” Bucky inhales deeply, willing his own panic to recede. “Breathe with me, Steve. You can do it, c'mon.”

Bucky takes the soldier’s other hand and holds the two atop his chest. Steve’s eyes are closed but Bucky catches the wrinkle of concentration between his brows. He lets out a sob but he’s already tilting his head to the side and focusing on Bucky’s thorax expanding and then contracting with each controlled breath. Bucky swells with pride when Steve starts mimicking the action. “You’re doing great, buddy. Come on, put that ugly nose of yours to good use.” More tears spill from the corners of his closed eyes but there’s an almost-smile making its way to twist his lips.

Bucky knows the worst has passed when Steve lets himself fall against him. “That’s it, Steve, you’re doing so good, don’t stop now.” Bucky waits for the trembling to start abating before he whispers against his ear, “I love you and if you even consider putting yourself down because of this I will push you down the stairs when you less expect it.”

Bucky counts the seconds in his head before Steve explodes into laughter. It’s too loud and hysteric, and there is some crying involved but Bucky will count it as a victory. As far as Bucky can tell, Steve, just as him, doesn’t have any intention of breaking the embrace.

“Chump.”

“Jerk.”

“Well, this jerk is going to take you to the kitchen and get some food into you,” Bucky informs him. He’s still not pulling away, though.

“Something else besides eggs?” Steve’s voice is somewhat slurred due to the adrenaline wearing off and the lack of sleep, and Bucky is supporting almost all of his weight. (Technically, Bucky knows how to cook; he just doesn’t always remember.) “You’re trying to think of an innuendo, am I right? God, you just giggled; you were totally thinking about something dirty.”

“Wouldn’t ya wanna know,” Bucky drawls.

“I would, actually.” This is good, Bucky contemplates. Flirting hasn’t been something they have had time to do or even been in the mood of. It feels good.

“Come one, move, Rogers,” Bucky finally orders but waits for Steve to push away. He does so grudgingly; he even lets out a grunt of feigned effort. Bucky can’t resist himself when he catches sight of Steve’s pink lips and just kisses him. Steve startles at first but then lifts his hands to Bucky’s waist and gets his warm palms under his shirt. Bucky has noticed (in fact, it isn’t that hard when you’re in the receiving end of Steve’s physical demonstrations of affection) that Steve has this _thing_ about touching him. It isn’t even something sexual a lot of the time, just the need of reassurance that something is tangible, real. It’s easy to understand when you have the same needs.

So Bucky gives Steve a moment to ground himself when their lips part, his hands roaming up his back, kneading the muscles, causing Bucky to hum placidly and now he is the one melting into the touch. He cracks an eye open, surveying the part of the hallway he has in sight; he hopes no one catches them in such a position, their hands under each other’s shirt.

“Food,” Bucky reminds him when Steve’s hands drift below his lower back.

“No,” he drawls.

His stomach rumbles.

“ _Food_ , Steven.”

Steve grunts and lets his head fall backward but follows Bucky when he takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen. He sits him on a chair and opens the fridge, wishing for his brain to come up with the memory of a recipe. It doesn’t, but Bucky still hums contently while he cooks scrambled eggs (adding some cheese for a change) and soaks the companionable silence the two of them have descended into. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him while he putters around the kitchen. Bucky can almost hear Steve’s brain working, dissecting Bucky’s words and finding a place in his mind to store the story in so he can torture himself with it later. Shit damn it, he botched this so badly.

Bucky is already plating the eggs when Steve speaks up (in reality, he wouldn’t have caught the words if it wasn’t for his enhanced hearing.) “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re here.”

Bucky turns slowly on his heels to see Steve still on his seat, his eyes lost somewhere on the wooden table. He lifts his eyes and Bucky sees the strained lines around his eyes and lips. “Sometimes I…” Steve cuts himself, his mouth open, seeking the right words. “I dream that your mask doesn’t fall. When we fight on the highway your mask never falls and I… I ki—”

“Hey, Steve, c'mon stop it.” He leaves the plate on the counter and walks the few steps that separate them. Bucky catches Steve’s face between his hands and tilts it upward, not letting his mind get lost in those dark turns and corners. “Don’t think it like that.” Steve looks at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head. “If that had happened and you had found out later that it was me behind the mask, what do you think you would have been thinking?”

The expression of incomprehension doesn’t budge. Bucky slides a chair in front of him and sits down, his flesh hand landing on Steve’s knee and squeezing it lightly. “You would have thought: ‘What if the mask had fallen? What if I had found out in time it was Bucky?’ The point is that it doesn’t matter the outcome, you will still find a way to torment yourself. _This_ —me being here because the mask fell—is what you would have been imagining in a world where the mask had stayed in place.”

Bucky is glad to see that Steve seems to be turning the words over in his mind. His hands roam slowly until they catch the metal and flesh one. “I used to…” Steve clears his throat. His head is lowered, deeply concentrated on their entwined hands resting on his lap. “I would imagine that I caught—” Steve shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for a second like whatever he’s trying to dislodge from his mind is causing him pain. “That you didn’t fall. I would imagine that you didn’t fall and I made it out of the plane and…”

“And we survived the war,” Bucky picks up where he trails off.

Steve nods his head without any comment, his lips pursed into a thin line but at least he’s not trying to avoid Bucky’s gaze.

The smirk that tugs at Bucky’s lips isn’t as hard to pull out as he thought. “You’re living the dream, sugar.” The corny phrase is enough to make Steve’s cheeks regain some color and his lips tug in a real smile. Bucky feels like punching the air in triumph. “Now eat your eggs.”

“As you say. _Sugar_.” He’s trying to suppress it but the shit-eating grin breaks free. Bucky feels like he’s floating over the clouds and looking directly at the sun.

“Shut up; you love it.” Steve ducks his head because it’s the truth; he loves it every time that Bucky uses an endearment or comes up with a new one. (Bucky would be a liar if he said he didn’t do so himself.)

“I swear to you there will be a day when we will be able to just stay in bed. No aliens, no world-saving, no drama, no more shit. Just you and me, lazing around.” It sounds like Steve is making a vow. Bucky’s lips curl in a soft smile at the earnestness he can see in his eyes. He tries to imagine Steve’s words coming true someday, and even though it’s a bit hard to achieve it still makes him giddy.

Bucky closes the gap between their chairs, planning on giving Steve a peck on the lips when… there’s a sudden grumble from the rec room and Steve starts, his muscles locking up. He gets to his feet as if the seat burns and Bucky follows with a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Oh, that,” the words escape him when a head with sleep-rumpled hair pocks from the couch. The kid inspects the room with bleary eyes, one cheek still bearing the imprint of a cushion. His eyes go as wide as Steve’s when he catches sight of the two men.

Bucky forgot to mention that the kid had been sleeping on the other room all this time. The android—Vision, Bucky reminds himself—had come through the ceiling and some minutes later put the kid on a more comfortable position while he rested; then he had done his thing and phased through another wall. Peter had been so out of it that he hadn’t even stirred in his sleep. Bucky had decided to keep an eye on him.

“Uhh. Are we allowed to be in the same room as the kid?” Steve questions in a hushed tone.

“The A.I. hasn’t released any flesh-melting gas yet, so.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters unconvinced, giving him a sideways look.

The three of them are in some kind of staring contest that Bucky decides to end. “Hey, Peter,” he greets him with a light smile.

The kid needs a moment but finally says, “Hi. Bucky. Mr. Rogers.” He’s still too wide-eyed and it’s making Bucky nervous. Maybe they’re not the more suitable company for the kid to wake up around.

“Steve. Just… Steve.” He couldn’t be more awkward. What a sucker.

“You’re a loser, Steve,” Bucky says under his breath with a grin.

“Where did you pick up that language from?” Steve fires back in the same tone.

Bucky catches movement at the corner of his eye and the two of them turn to see Peter hovering near the couch and not knowing what to do with himself. He looks uncertain and anxious, his hands held behind his back.

“Oh,” he remembers then. “The red guy, Vision, told me that your training is canceled for today.” All right, that wasn’t the correct thing to say in this situation; the kid looks pitiful. He chances a look at Steve who seems just as out of his element as him. He tries hard to think about something to say but nothing comes to mind.

“You, ah,” it’s Steve who speaks and Bucky feels like sighing with relief. “You wanna help me make lunch for Tony?” Steve, just as Bucky, must have noticed that the kid needs something to do, to feel useful.

Peter stares at Steve with an expression Bucky can’t read with ease. It looks like… awe and panic? Then his face turns carefully blank and he mutters under his breath, “There’s one thing that will always give you an edge. A hot lunch.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to react.

_What?_

Is the kid all right?

“Oh God, no,” Steve moans by his side, eyes wide open with something that looks but could not possibly be panic because it wouldn’t make any sense. He buries his face in his hands and gives a little groan. “I had forgotten about that.”

“What? What was that?” Bucky asks intrigued.

“Is—”

“No!” Steve interrupts him, giving a step in Peter’s direction and raising his hands as if he intends to stop him physically from speaking any further. “You.” Steve pokes Bucky in the chest. “Shut up. And you,” his tone softens noticeably when he addresses Peter. “Come to the kitchen if you want to eat and help me make something for Tony, too.”

Peter brightens up at that and almost skips to the kitchen. He stops at Bucky’s side and mouths at him, “I’ll show you later.” Bucky gives him a grin—Peter’s almost imperceptible smile transforming into one as well—and then a thumbs up.

“So…” Peter breaks the silence only filled by the noises of cooking. “How is Mr. Stark?” He’s obviously trying to sound casual but is failing by a mile. His voice is strained by apprehension and his body is moving too stiffly, moves calculated to the millimeter.

“Ah.” Steve looks at him searching for help. Bucky lifts his hands in defeat. “He has a fever.” Bucky scowls at him. _Don’t lie to the kid_ , he hopes it says.

"It’s true", Steve mouths at him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. _All the truth?_

Steve glares at him but then says, “There was a, um… a strife,” _Really?_ Bucky can’t help but mouth with disbelief, “between Tony and Clint. Um, Barton.”

“Yeah, Hawkeye. I know who he is.” Peter looks pensive.

“But Tony is better now.” Peter isn’t buying it either, Bucky is sure of that much. “Gamora and Quill are with him now. He’s sleeping.”

This seems to pique Peter’s interest. “Really?” Steve nods, turning away from Peter but Bucky catches the smile. “Shouldn’t we… like, make them food, too?”

“Yeah. Yeah, actually that’s a good idea, Peter.” The kid visible brightens even more with the praise, though he tries to hide it and still has a guarded air about him. Bucky is starting to see why Stark is so protective of the kid. Bucky doesn’t want that kind of innocence ripped away, either. Steve’s soft eyes when he looks at Peter cooking convey the same sentiment. He fills a glass of water and nudges it in Peter’s direction; the kid drinks it in one go and looks surprised at how thirsty he is. Steve gives a glass of water to Bucky, too. Okay, that’s an odd way to take care of people.

Bucky grabs a peach next and settles on a kitchen counter, observing the other two behaving all awkward around each other but making do.

The A. I. hasn’t killed them yet—no one has killed anybody; Steve is retiring; they’ve had not one but _two_ mature conversations about their feelings and the future… Things don’t look so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where did all this angst come from??? This was going to be fluffy and maybe have some superfamily and then I find myself writing more than 2K of angst in one go. So much angst my laptop actually shut down and I almost broke down crying. Luckily, Word saved my progress.
> 
> That “You would have thought: ‘What if the mask had fallen? What if I had found out in time it was Bucky?’ The point is that it doesn’t matter the outcome, you will still find a way to torment yourself. _This_ —me being here because the mask fell—is what you would have been imagining in a world where the mask had stayed in place.” part is actually something I’ve been telling myself lately because my brain is so fuckin negative and gives me useless anxiety 24/7. So every time something bad _almost_ happens (e. g. almost being late to work) and my mind starts bombarding me with negative thoughts of every bad thing that could have happened, I tell myself “This is what you would have wished to happen if things had gone south.” Just thought I would share if you guys find this useful someday :)
> 
> Uuuuh excuse me but when did this reach 60k (ok almost)??? It was supposed to be 6k!! I swear Mantis will make an appearance!! I have a Word with 500 words (and increasing) only about how to make the scene (there’s going to be more to the scene than you think btw.)
> 
> And as a last note, let me inform you that I started posting my Wolfstar fic. Yep the one I mentioned like 10 chapters ago. I think you can actually see my writing improving with every chapter because I started writing in English thanks to that fic.


	16. Chapter 16

Peter is staring at Steve, he can feel the kid’s eyes boring on the back of his skull. Well, to be fair, the kid has enough reasons to be wary of him.

“We could make something more than lame grilled cheese.”

“Man, I don’t wanna hear you dissing the grilled cheese ever again. The grilled cheese has been with me through thick and thin. Besides, the toast is for Tony; the sandwiches are for his alien friends.”

“The guy is from here,” Natasha chimes in, not looking away from her phone. (Steve notices with some resentment that she’s dressed in different clothes; she must still have her things in her floor. Goddammit.)

Steve hears the conversation taking place in the kitchen and feels Bucky’s warm and always-reassuring presence at his left, but his mind is focused on the burning sensation of the kid’s still distrustful gaze.

“Only meant we could make some chicken noodle soup, that’s all,” his voice is carefully casual when he finishes saying, his eyes on his bowl of cereal, but there’s a subdued undertone. “We make—we used to make it for the kids when they were sick. Laura’s was always better but I could give it a try.”

No one is really surprised by Clint’s contribution about what else should Steve take to Tony’s room and the three people there. Steve knows that Natasha has had a serious no-time-for-your-shit talk with Clint, Steve can see it just in how distant she is with him and in the almost hurt looks Clint is sending in her direction, which she is obviously ignoring.

Actually, Peter’s expression turns even more distrustful, his brow creasing the moment Clint’s words make their way out of his mouth. Steve understands that Peter is bound and entitled to feel that way, but he knows the real source of Clint’s change of attitude: last night’s incident and whatever Nat had to tell him was enough to wake him up from his rage-induced state. Clint hasn’t shaken off all the anger that’s been eating at him for the past year but Steve hopes he’s getting around it. Steve feels like Clint is trying to right some of his wrongs but he's conscious that it’s probably too late for that.

And Bucky… he doesn’t look that much interested, taking into account that he just slapped Steve’s ass when no one was paying attention.

“You’re really cheery today,” Steve observes under his breath while Natasha and Sam discuss recipes. Bucky just flashes him a grin and gives an insouciant shrug of his shoulders. He’s too close, his warmth seeping through his clothes and reaching Steve with alluring fingers. Bucky’s now dark eyes fall to Steve’s lips and _whoa_ not here. Bucky winks at him and slides away, leaving Steve flustered and disoriented for a moment.

_Goddamn you, Buck._

Yeah, James Buchanan has always been a flirt and even now that he is Bucky—but not all the way to Barnes (maybe not ever)—he knows how to make Steve at a loss for words.

Steve sighs when Peter’s stare intensifies enough to get the Captain out of his thoughts. Steve feels bad for even thinking of it but it’s starting to be annoying and—  


_Oh._ Steve can almost feel the light bulb turning on inside his head.

The kid is holding himself at a safe distance from them, his back to the wall, muscles tense, and eyes vigilant. His eyes aren’t exclusively following Steve but all the others, too. However, now that Steve notices, the look Peter directs at him and an oblivious Bucky is almost pleading.

Shit, he should have noticed sooner.

Steve had been aware that Peter wasn’t comfortable with the team around but he had assumed it couldn’t be that bad if the kid was still hanging out in the kitchen. Maybe the kid is just stubborn—Steve can understand that. Or perhaps he’s keeping an eye on the people he doesn’t trust—Steve can understand that, too.

Steve makes a decision and approaches Peter slowly. “Hey, Peter, you okay?” The kid looks up with wide eyes. He nods once. “Wanna come with me to Tony’s bedroom?”

At first, he nods, but then he shakes vehemently his head. Steve regards him with a questioning look. “Um, I don’t think I should go with you.” His voice is almost a whisper and Steve supposes it must be because he doesn’t want his words to be overheard. Steve peers not so subtly at his team and even though they all seem concentrated on their own thing, Steve knows they’re paying close attention. Bucky is definitely closer than a minute ago.

“What? Why not?” He was convinced Peter would want to see by himself how Tony is doing.

“Mr. Stark doesn’t want me in his bedroom.” He lowers his gaze, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“That’s probably because he doesn’t want you to see him… like that. He isn’t, uh, in a good shape right now. But he’s getting better,” Steve stumbles over the words, hoping it will assuage the kid somewhat.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. won’t even show me a video feed of him,” Peter grumbles with a scowl, eyes still roaming over the floor. 

“Master Parker,” the A.I. calls out just then. Steve could swear even Natasha gives a little jump in her seat. On the other hand, Steve notes that the strain in Peter’s shoulders eases a bit.

“Shit, I think I just had a small heart attack,” Sam voices everyone’s thoughts.

“I think I _peed_ myself a little bit,” Clint chimes in, making Bucky snort.

“Boss would like to know when Miss Parker is coming to get you, or if he should send Happy.”

“Tell him that I called May and she lets me stay another day.” Having all the attention of the room on him is obviously making the kid restless and uncomfortable. Steve shifts so he’s between Peter and the rest of the room. “If he’s okay with me staying.”

Steve is pretty sure Tony wouldn’t have any problem with him staying, not in the slightest.

“Boss says I should quote his words: ‘Don’t be ridiculous, kid. If you want I can homeschool you in the compound.’”

Steve huffs a small laugh, a fond smile creeping on his face.

“But I can’t get in his rooms.” There’s a pregnant silence, no one dissimulating that they haven’t heard the accusing tone. “Tell him I hope he feels better.” There’s still some bite to his words but he sounds genuine.

Peter walks out of the kitchen but doesn’t do more than flop on one of the couches and… sulk. Well, he’s a teenager, after all. Steve takes a look at his team, who are already eyeing each other with uncertainty. This area is clearly not their strong suit.

“Give him some time to cool down,” is Clint who informs them. Right, he has kids.

Steve turns to Bucky when he snorts with no tact—again. His eyes are bright but seem far away from the 21st century.

_Becca. He’s probably thinking about Becca._

“I will bring them the grilled cheese and toast while Tony is still awake. You can fight over who makes soup.” Sam and Natasha don’t waste any time and pick each a kitchen knife, adopting fighting stances while facing each other. Clint sighs in his cereal, supporting his head on his palm and immediately hissing in pain the moment he touches his swollen face.

Steve picks up the plates and gets into the elevator, not before passing near Bucky and at least brushing their arms together. Steve sighs with resignation, feeling the knot forming on his throat with each step he takes; they should stop with the bullshit and just let the others know about them.

The trip to Tony’s floor is short but it’s enough for his heart-rate to pick up. Steve is not sure if Tony will want him in his space; maybe he’s thought better about their last chat and doesn’t want Steve near him anymore.

The doors slide open one after another until Steve is finally crossing the last one. Steve isn’t that much surprised when he sees Quill lying on his back on Tony’s right and Gamora in an armchair she must have dragged to the bed. Her legs are stretched along the mattress, one of her feet on Tony’s lap. Gamora greets him with an easy smile and immediately returns her attention to the two men on the bed.

“No, no. I created F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony is explaining, his words slurred and his eyes remaining more time closed than not. He has a coughing fit he gets under control pretty quickly. “And J.A.R.V.I.S., but Vision is his own person—android. Whatever.”

“Technically speaking, you and Doctor Banner can be considered my makers,” Vision’s calm voice interjects from a different corner of the bedroom, making his presence known to Steve who hadn’t noticed him yet. “Well, and Ultron, as well.”

“So you mean to say that Brucie and I are parents?” Tony asks, tone incredulous and eyelids flying open.

“And Ultron,” Vision adds, sounding amused.

“No, no, Ultron was… he was the drunk uncle but not like me, he was the-the problematic relative,” Tony explains himself with abundant gesturing, almost smacking Quill on the face, who only catches his hand and lowers it back to the bed.

It seems Gamora and Quill have plenty of questions that aren’t going to voice while Tony has his brain so visibly muddled.

“It looks like you’re already doing better,” Steve comments lightly when he puts the plates on the near dresser.

Tony jerks under the blankets and tries to sit up when he sees Steve, but Quill doesn’t let him. “Hey, hey, down. You remember how you fell last time you tried that?”  


Tony does his best to vocalize whatever is on his mind but needs a minute to get a hold of his tongue. “I needed to take a leak.”

“And you almost peed face down on the floor—bruising your face even more, by the way,” Gamora chimes in, her face buried in a book, even though she’s paying close attention to everything that’s going on.

“You should see the other guy.” Tony grins at her, the pull on his face obviously paining him.

“The other guy isn’t bedridden.”

Tony gives a non-committal grunt as his only answer, but then he spots Steve again and his eyes widen like it’s the first time he’s spotted the Captain. Tony is grinning. Steve can’t understand why he’s smiling and stretching his hand in his direction.

“Come here, Cap,” Tony pleads with a hoarse voice, sounding worn out but there’s some life that wasn’t present an hour or so ago.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., could you tell whoever is still in the kitchen to make tea with honey for Tony?” Steve requests, closing the distance between himself and the outstretched hand. Gamora lifts her legs from the mattress so Steve can accommodate himself when he takes Tony’s hand—it’s cold and clammy due to the fever.

“Hey, Tony, how are—?”

“I’m sorry.”

Steve blinks his eyes slowly. “Sorry? What would you be sorry for, Tony?” But Tony just stares at him with red eyes. “Tony?”

“Sometimes he just checks out,” Quill helpfully informs him. It looks like it’s not the first time it’s happened in the last couple of hours; all the same, Quill still looks a bit concerned.

“S-sorry.” Tony shakes his head with heavy-lidded eyes. “You-you left because I didn’t do enough. The team, you…” Tony closes his eyes and puts a hand against his forehead, turning on his right side with a grunt of effort. Steve places a hand against his back, feeling the fever-caused sweat dampening the t-shirt, and then positions a pillow against his back to support him.

“That’s not true, Tony,” Steve says with emphasis. “You know why I had to leave, don’t let the fever deceive you. Neither one of us left because of you.” He rubs small circles against Tony’s back, feeling him give in and press against his hand. “We came back for you. Though, in the end, you didn’t really need us,” Steve finishes with a sheepish smile he directs at Quill and Gamora.

“I think he’s asleep,” Quill says, looking closely at Tony’s face.

“No,” Tony grunts but doesn’t turn or open his eyes, as Steve confirms when he bends over him to take a look at his face.

“Tony, you gotta eat,” Steve informs him, nudging his back gently. Tony grunts—again—, still not moving. Steve stares at him with no clue about what to do. Should he insist? Make him sit up and eat?

“Hi there, Red,” a new voice distracts Steve from his musings: Rocket and Groot are just entering the room. “A guy gave me this and asked if I could give it to you. Hey, is there a television in here?”

Steve stares in astonishment as Groot’s arms elongate until they reach the nightstand and deposit the mug there with a light thump. It must be useful when you don’t want to dismount your friend’s shoulder. Rocket climbs the bed and sits between the other two men’s feet.

“Fry, TV,” Tony mumbles in his pillow.

“Hey, no, Rocket—Tony has to rest and he’s already making it difficult,” Quill chides his teammate.

“Leave it, Quill,” Tony brushes off his concerns. “I like the background noise.” A pause and Tony accommodates better between pillows and blankets. “Eh, what do you mean I’m making it difficult?” Quill only looks at him with a tiny smile but doesn’t add anything—Tony quickly forgets about it, apparently too busy gazing into the guy’s eyes. Steve feels like someone should clear their throat.

“I’ll lower the volume, don’t worry,” Rocket assures them, giving Steve a distraction. A panel is opened on the wall in front of the bed to reveal a giant screen. The alien lies over the blankets and makes himself comfortable propping his head on an arm. It looks like Groot is about to mimic him but in the last moment he changes his mind and climbs the bed until he’s standing in front of Tony’s face. The man must sense his presence because he opens his eyes and greets the tiny thing with a smile and a slurred, “Hi there, little guy.”

“I am Groot.”

Rocket barks a laugh.

“What? What did he just say?”

“That you should drink your tea,” Quill translates.

“And eat your food,” Steve admonishes him, maybe too sternly (when did he get on his feet and put his hands on his hips? God, he’s just like his ma.) He doesn’t want Tony to get away with not eating; he’s seen it happen too many times already to know Tony can be very sneaky.

“Isn’t that too much food for him?” Quill is leaning on his elbow, inspecting the plates from the distance.

“Oh, no. The toast is for Tony but the grilled cheese is for you and Gamora. Sorry, Rocket, Groot, I didn’t know you would be here. And, uh, sorry we didn’t _really_ cook you something, guys,” Steve apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck with some discomfort.

“Don’t worry, Goldilocks,” Rocket says without unlocking his eyes from the screen. He gets a bunch of chocolate bars out of somewhere and holds them high so Steve can see that he’s stocked. Rocket shares the candy with Groot who has decided to lie at his side now that someone else is making sure Tony will get his nutrients.

(Steve wants to ask Rocket if other planets are familiar with the story of _Goldilocks and the Three Bears_ but doesn’t know if he will be capable of coming out the same if Rocket announces that it’s not a story _originally_ from Earth.)

“That’s really sweet of you, Steve,” Gamora voices with a smile, getting to her feet to retrieve the plates from the dresser and placing them beside the mug. She picks a grilled cheese and starts eating.

“Are you trying to steal my new friends, Steven?” Tony says with a half-smile, still resting on his side. “'Cause there is nothing I can do if you go full gentleman on them.”

Steve doesn’t like the words, mainly because they’re self-deprecating and not 100% a joke on Tony’s part. On the other hand, it makes him think of high school, and it’s weird because in those times no one would have even thought that Steve Rogers was going to steal someone else’s friends—fewer people understood how Bucky was his friend. “I think it’s your crazy scientist _vibe_ that has charmed them.”

Steve feels his stomach uncoil when Tony graces him with a smile and, helped by Quill and Gamora, sits propped up by more pillows. “Huh… A vibe you say?” Tony teases with a look that’s between playful and pensive.

“Yup. I’ve learned a lot of words in the last year,” Steve answers with a cheeky smile.

“You’ve learned young-people terminology? That’s really sweet of you, gramps. You must be the coolest and hippest at your old folks’ home.”

Steve shakes his head with a laugh, not oblivious of Tony’s own smile blooming right away. Steve can see that Tony’s is full of relief, too. It’s sad that they can’t even share a good moment without immediately being grateful they haven’t fucked up somehow.

“Really? The soggy toast for me? I’m sick; shouldn’t you pity me and give me everything I want?”

“And what is that, Tony?” Gamora voices the words Steve was just about to say. She has a playful glint in her eyes but sounds genuinely curious. It looks like this catches Tony off guard and he takes a bite of toast to dissimulate.

Steve looks at Gamora with surprise; she winks at him and gets back to her reading. Steve tries not to make it too obvious that he’s _this_ close to bursting into laughter.

“Tea,” Rocket pronounces the word with deliberate care, one leg dangling propped on his opposite knee. Tony gives a petulant grunt but washes the toast down with his drink.

Steve takes Quill’s plate from the nightstand and passes it to him, who accepts it with a nod and… the star-struck smile again. At least it lasts only a brief moment, immediately replaced by curiosity when he asks, “And Dum-E? Did you make him too?”

“Oh, Dum-E was my first bot. He’s like my baby.” Tony starts talking without even waiting to chew and swallow his food, already letting himself be engulfed by the pillows. Steve decides that it’s time to go back to the team since it’s pretty obvious by now that Tony is about to fall asleep again.

Just as predicted, the moment Tony finishes his toast Gamora takes plate and mug and leaves them on the nightstand, she and Quill getting Tony comfortable on the bed while he prattles on under his breath. Steve bids his goodbyes with the rest of the room, leaving Tony for the last. While the engineer is still hanging to consciousness by a thin thread, Steve gets by his side to take his hand on his own. God, his skin looks paper-thin, reminding the super-soldier that life is different for him, that he’s not aging like any other person. That Tony is getting old and a year lost is already too much.

Steve touches Tony’s knuckles to his forehead and then lowers the hand to his chest, clasping it between his own hands. Tony is looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted and brow furrowed. “I will be here when you wake up, Tony,” he promises, and with a last smile he gets up and exits the bedroom.

 

Clint ends up making the chicken noodle soup, enough for at least another two teams to eat, but Steve doesn’t get it to Tony because he hasn’t woken up again. Natasha, Clint, Sam, Bucky, and even Peter have already had dinner. Steve is through his second bowl of soup, just having come back from giving Quill and Gamora their own dinner since they’re still keeping an eye on their mutual friend.

Steve has already talked with the team about his retirement. Just thinking about the conversation makes his insides turn. It wasn’t a long one; there wasn’t any shouting; no one told him to think better about his decision, that he was needed. Instead, there were pats on the back, encouragements to get himself a house with a _white picket fence_ and a bunch of dogs and cats, to get off of his ass and put himself out there (this was followed by a wink on Nat’s part, a nudge on the ribs on Sam’s, and a red face on Bucky’s, who was miserably failing at hiding that he was about to start cackling. Clint had just looked at him with a sad smile and told him to stick to his word if he was really going to do it.)

Everything had gone great. So why is he feeling nauseated just by recalling the half-hour conversation?

 _Because you’re lying to yourself_ , a vicious voice whispers at the back of his mind, a voice he had thought long gone and forgotten. _You have not only left humanity behind but any semblance of a normal life; a life without war._

The voice is too loud; it sounds like Schmidt is just inches away from Steve’s ear. He screws his eyes shut, trying to dislodge the words from his mind. But… they are still there, they have never left.

Steve opens his eyes, feeling the strain on his muscles, the fear that he’s going to change his mind and disappoint Bucky—

Bucky. Steve observes him raptly, drinking his image like a man about to die of thirst. And then he reminds his own words, the ones he said to Johann Schmidt an entire life or two ago.

“I want what every soldier on every battlefield wants...” Steve reminds himself out loud. His eyes are tightly shut in fear that if he keeps them open he won’t be at the compound anymore. “I want to go home. I want this war to end.”

And that’s the truth so there is nothing for him to fear.

From his seat at the kitchen island, Steve inspects the rec room, spotting Rocket talking with Sam, and Groot on Bucky’s shoulder; Natasha and Clint are not on sight but it’s not something that troubles him. He notes after a shaky sigh that Bucky’s and Peter’s heads are too close to each other, almost as if they are…

“Hey, what are you two doing?” Steve exclaims, already on his feet. The both of them start but while Peter fumbles with whatever he is holding and a guilty expression takes over his features, Bucky just turns on his seat with a wicked grin that sends conflicting messages to Steve’s brain.

_Should I kiss him or be scared of what’s about to happen?_

“Steve, why didn’t you tell me about your fitness challenge?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam butts in the conversation without skipping a beat.

“Buck, don’t you dare,” Steve warns with a threatening tone, his forefinger already raising in the air.

“Why don’t you say that sitting backward on a chair, Captain?” Bucky fires back with a challenging smirk. “How did they even let you back on the country, pal?”  


Steve gives a step forward, intending on taking the cell phone away from them even if he has to use violence or buy Peter a new one but oh God no, it’s too late, Bucky is already passing the phone to Sam and…

“Rappin' with Cap? Oh, God it’s _that_ costume! This is going to be good!” Steve strides in their direction with an outstretched hand but the two are already running away from him, cackling like annoying children.

“I’m sorry Capt—Steve,” Peter apologizes when Steve gets to his side. Steve’s face softens, not wanting Peter to think he’s mad at him.

“You took _Winstrol_ and now you’re talking to kids about the freaking food pyramid to ‘find balance?!’”

Bucky and Sam are still running in circles trying not to get caught, but that doesn’t stop them from tripping laughing and helping each other to get back on their feet. They obviously have to comment every clip. Rocket and Groot join in.

“I have to show this to Clint and Nat!” Sam shouts while racing out of the rec room.

“They already know about them; everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew!” Steve follows them to the door but decides it’s a lost cause.

“I’m borrowing your phone, bug-boy!”

“If you feel an itch!” Steve hears Buck screech just before there’s a crash followed by a great guffaw.

What Steve doesn’t expect is Peter whispering by his side, “Stand up and be counted a hero.” 

“Please, don’t do that. Filming that was painful.” At least the kid is laughing. Steve heaves an exaggerated sigh and gets back to the kitchen, leaving the kid watching TV.

“Captain Rogers, as you asked of me I’m letting you know Mr. Stark is conscious again.”

“Okay, thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Peter looks at him over the back of the couch but returns his gaze to the screen without saying anything. Steve takes Tony’s bowl of soup from the oven, fetching a bottle of water at room temperature, and makes his way to the elevator. This time his pulse is steady.

He exits the cabin, already hearing voices from Tony’s bedroom.

“…b-but it’s kinda difficult to explain so I won’t bore you,” Tony is apparently ending a conversation, a hand thrown across his eyes.

Steve enters through the door just in time to catch Quill’s dumbfound expression with his mouth hanging open and eyes as big as saucers. “What do you mean bore me?”

“Yeah, explain the housing unit for nanoparticles again, how is that going to work?” Gamora follows up, leaning on her armchair, the book forgotten on the floor.

Steve doesn’t have a clue what they are talking about but it _does_ sound fascinating—and hard to understand. He feels like Bucky would love to hear the conversation.

“Tony, I got you soup.”

Tony perks up when he hears his voice, again trying to sit up, and again he has to be stopped by Quill. “Hey, I have to sit up to eat the soup, don’t I?”

Quill frowns at him. “But slowly.” Tony makes a show of moving at the speed of a sloth. He looks surprised when Quill actually laughs at his childish behavior.

Steve passes him the bowl and spoon accompanied by a napkin, ready to turn around and leave, when there’s suddenly a hand clutching his sleeve.

“I didn’t tell you, before,” Tony starts hesitantly, his voice still slurred and eyes fever-bright and unable to stay focused for long periods of time, “but you deserve to retire, maybe more than anyone else.”

Steve is about to contradict him; he has the words ready at the tip of his tongue but he backs down on the last second, choosing another truth. “I would say the same to you but I know for sure that you won’t leave this life. At least not yet.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, that way giving Steve a clear answer. “Thanks for the soup.”

“Clint made it.”

“Oh.” Tony stares into his soup but finally brings the spoon to his mouth and starts eating. “It’s good.”

What’s worrying Steve is Quill’s scowl—it’s like he’s trying to set fire to the bowl.

“How is Peter? I’m keeping an eye on him through Fry but, you know, she’s kinda a machine and video surveillance is not quite the same as the real thing.”

“The kid is doing okay,” Steve reassures him, sitting on Tony’s left side. “He—” Steve is not sure how much he should say or if Tony will like his next words. “I think he actually likes Bucky.” It sounds more a question than a statement. “Um, and I don’t think he hates me, so that’s something.”

Tony hums into his soup. “I don’t think anyone can hate you once they know you, Cap.” The words come out too natural for them to be anything but what Tony really thinks.  


“Right back atcha, pal,” Steve says with a smile and wet eyes, squeezing gently Tony’s shoulder.

“Steve.” Steve looks at him but Tony’s eyes are still swimming into his broth. “I think we’re on our path of making things right.”

He’s about to say that, no, he’s the one who has to make things right, make it up to Tony because it’s what each one deserves, but maybe it’s not the best choice of words. Tony’s self-esteem is askew, as Steve has had the opportunity to discover, so maybe this is the best Steve can ask for.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer to Tony’s statment but forces words through his lips. “Yeah? I’m happy, then. We will try our best.” Tony nods at this but it seems like he’s at the limit of his energy reserves.

Steve exits the bedroom after a final pat to Tony’s arm and a reminder to call for him should he need anything. Tony says goodbye with a wave of his hand and a “see you later” followed by an “and unroll those sleeves! What are you, fourteen?”, and Steve gets into the elevator.

There’s a sudden cracking noise warning him that someone is going to talk through the speakers.

“Oh, Steve,” Tony’s voice comes clear into the cabin. “I forgot to tell you that I have taken the liberty of ordering some _real_ clothes for you and your boy. They must be already in your room.”

Steve feels his face heat up but doesn’t add anything more than a “thank you, you didn’t have to.”

He finally returns to the previous floor, where is everyone ( _fortunately_.) It looks like his mortifying videos have been enough of a push to make the team forget for a moment about all the bad stuff they have been through lately and bond.

Unlike the others, Peter is watching TV, a _talk show_ , to be more specific. Steve arches an eyebrow, positioning himself behind the couch to see what it is about. He only needs half a minute to reach for the remote and change the channel. Peter snaps his head up, searching for whoever didn’t let him stew in his own misery.

“Don’t listen to those people, Peter. We all know that what they’re saying about Tony is bullshit.” Hearing Captain America swearing must be quite a shock. Peter doesn’t say anything on that topic but he doesn’t return to the talk show when Steve gives him the remote back. Steve sits on one of the couches, letting himself melt into the cushions, a lazy smile on his face that feels impossible to get rid of.

Is in that moment that an alarm starts blaring. The laughter stops and Steve sits bolt upright.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark is being attacked in his rooms.” Her voice sounds off. The TV is changing channels on its own and the lights are flickering. “My-my s-server-rs are be-being—” A deafening silence. “Compromised.”

The heavy silence falls again when the television turns itself off, time seeming to stop. Everyone holds their breath for a millisecond, eyeing each other. Peter is the first to react—he’s already sprinting, enhanced speed on full force. The others don’t need anything else to make them jump into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh… what was that? Was everything getting better and then BAM a cliffhanger???
> 
> If you haven’t watched all the Rappin' with Cap clips that were included in the Spider-Man Homecoming DVD/Blu-ray, I would recommend for you guys to look it up in YT, not only because you won’t understand a chunk of this chapter, but because it’s hilarious.
> 
> Little clarification if you already don’t know what it means. _Winstrol_ is an anabolic steroid that helps build muscles. “Winstrol helps create quality muscle growth. Some anabolic steroids help build muscle size without creating an increase in strength. Combined with a serious workout, Winstrol creates strong muscles.”  
>     
> And yep, as you may have already notices, the story is reaching an end. I’m not sure if it will be 18 chapters but it won’t be more than 19.
> 
> Leave your comment to fuel my writing!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi Mantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if it’s necessary but TRIGGER WARNING for gore. It’s not much (I think?) but better safe than sorry.
> 
> Hey, have you guys listened to Zack Hemsey - The Way (Instrumental) (and the original one with lyrics)? No? Well it’s BRILLIANT! Don’t waste any more time and listen to it!!
> 
> Also, I recommend you the songs The Winter by Balmorthea and So Far by Ólafur Arnalds feat Arnór Dan. I listen to them when I’m writing something depressing and/or angsty.

Steve and the team are climbing the stairs three at a time; he isn’t sure if he’s even touching the floor with how fast he’s going. There’s an order to the team running shoulder to shoulder, getting ready their weapons and preparing for a fight; even their breathing has reached a sort of synchrony. Steve isn’t conscious of the darkness that engulfs his surroundings and the emergency lights flickering after a minute—there are _too many_ images of Tony’s lifeless eyes running through his mind for him to think about anything else.

There are only two more floors left when Steve makes a turn to get to the next staircase and collides with a body. He grabs the person by the back of their jacket and spins them around. The guy looks just as surprised to see Steve and the others as they feel. There’s a cracking noise coming from the stranger’s hip—a radio. Steve listens for a moment to the person at the other end until he gets enough information and then crashes the radio in his hand. Without giving the guy another look, Steve flings him at a wall and leaves him unconscious on the floor.

“Buck, make sure there’s no one else on this floor and the floors below; Nat, you get the ones above. I don’t care what you do with them.”

With only a nod, the team splits up. Clint already has his bow ready and Sam his guns—Steve only has himself as a weapon. The three of them move through the compound swiftly, almost no sound coming out of them, and with a synchronization and understanding between them that Steve knows he will miss.

Steve is already sprinting when he hears the crashing and yelling coming from above. When he reaches Tony’s living room, he has to stop on his tracks, not sure what to make out of what he’s seeing. The room is swarming with people, all of them fighting or already sprawled on the floor. Tony is in his Iron Man armor—no, scratch that, in _part_ of his Iron Man armor. _Fuck._ He’s swaying on his feet, Steve can see that much even from a distance, but he’s fighting nonetheless. There’s sweat rolling down his face and forcing him to shut the one eye he doesn’t have already swollen. Gamora and Quill are flanking him, Gamora with her swords and Quill with his strange guns, the two of them fiercely taking down whoever dares to come too close.

Steve tries to make his way to them but there are so many from the hostile party, he has to stop and fight them off every few steps—and he has only his fists while they have fucking gadgets!

Steve falls to the floor when something collides with his legs and binds them together. It’s made out of some metal but he can break it even if it’s electrified. He gets to his feet, already huffing with annoyance because these guys aren’t even that good, they’re just a lot and persistent!

And then he has the opportunity to hear what they’re yelling at each other and the message they’re relaying through the radios: Why isn’t Tony Stark alone? What are the Avengers doing here? Who are the others?

At some point during the fight when he’s stopped registering them as people but as something that’s in his way, Steve has a moment when the wall of enemies is thinning to think about what is really going on. These guys, this organization or whatever they are, must have been plotting this for some time, counting on an almost empty compound to carry out their plan and… capture Tony so he can make them weapons? Kill him? (The mere idea is making Steve hit harder.) They must know that Tony Stark isn’t an easy prey; maybe they’re desperate?

It dawns on Steve that he _doesn’t care_. They’ll capture some of the agents and give them to whoever is in charge and _they_ can find out what's going on. Steve is here to help Tony, nothing else.

He has enough experience to know that it’s only a matter of time—probably mere minutes—before everyone else is knocked out. They aren’t bad exactly (he's already sporting some bruises and cuts of his own), but they are young as well as inexperienced and are making it obvious that they’re desperate to make it to Tony and take him with them as fast as possible.

Steve punches another one of the agents (they _definitely_ have matching uniforms) with some more force than necessary, sending her flying backward and taking other two agents down with her, when there’s an honest to God _battle cry_ from behind him. Drax is wielding his own swords and showing his maniac grin to their adversaries who are downright terrified. Rocket and Groot are as cheerful as him. Steve is simply grateful that Rocket hasn’t decided to use his massive gun in this fight. He’s using knives now and jumping from one enemy to the other like a rabid… rabbit.

_Shit, the tree is impaling those people._

Steve doesn’t have time to think about anything else when there is a startling cry.

“PETER NO!”

Steve feels the floor shift under him, all the air being sucked out of the room. There is static inside his head. His blood runs cold. For a moment everyone freezes, even the few agents still conscious. Tony’s voice sounds torn, a deep and old crack on a wall that only gets bigger and bigger, deeper and deeper.

Without any warning, the few windows that had remained unscathed burst into pieces when more agents arrive, a gust of wind and rain making everyone clench their teeth.

Steve sees the kid then, still in his pajamas, his webs caught on something—oh God, something with an electric current. Steve gives a step in his direction with no idea about what to do. Maybe the serum won’t let it hurt him that much; he only needs a few seconds to get Peter’s hands to let go of the web or maybe try and cut it.

There’s a problem and it’s that Tony, without any enhancement, has most certainly had the same idea as Steve. He’s trying to get to the kid, swaying on his feet but with a clear objective in mind. Gamora and Quill are trying to go after him but are making sure that every enemy that gets from the outside falls and stays down. Tony isn’t stopping, though; he’s blasting off everyone who gets in his way, not even sparing them a glance. Steve can’t get to him, not when there are so many of them!

“Tony, stop!” He doesn’t even hear him. He’s going to do it, oh god, he’s going to grab the electrified web and he’s going to kill himself!

And suddenly the kid drops to the floor like a puppet with its string cut off. No, that’s not right—Clint catches him. Clint has the kid, holding his hands, and something else is attached to his palms—a putty arrow. Clint has used a putty arrow to insulate the current. Steve feels himself breathe but doesn’t have time to let himself relax because these guys are relentless.

“Clint, get the kid out of here!” Steve orders, grabbing a coffee table to use against a large group of annoying agents. They must be aware that they’re not getting out of here with what they want, right?

It seems like that’s what they’re thinking, precisely, because they suddenly start retreating and jumping on their helicopters or directly out of the shattered windows like one single mind. It doesn’t really concern him since they have enough of their guys to hand over to whoever is going to take them into custody to interrogate them for more information on their organization and their goals.

But something isn’t right. Tony is frozen in place, not trying to get nearer to the unconscious kid who is just a few feet away from him. Clint has him on his lap, examining his hands, his arms, his face, his torso. And still Tony isn’t moving. It’s so bizarre, that Steve doesn’t know what to do. Then he hears Tony’s voice.

“Oh, God… He’s dead.”

And Steve, for just a moment, believes it. It’s like there’s a chunk of ice inside his chest trying to pierce its way out.

“He’s not,” Clint says immediately and Steve can breathe again. “Stark. Hey, Tony, listen to me, the kid is okay.” Tony falls to the floor oblivious of all the shards of glass cutting into his skin and Steve gives an instinctive step in his direction, immediately tripping with a body or two. “Feel his pulse—he’s alive.”

But Tony can’t hear him. He dugs his hands on the glass, staining the floor with blood. “I killed him. Oh God. Oh God, please no.” His voice is so _small_ and still so broken it’s enough to make silence fall around everyone remaining in the room, cocooning them in the oppressing atmosphere where they can only watch Tony’s grieving.

“Tony, snap out of it.” Clint tries to reach over Peter’s prone body and touch Tony, make him aware of his surroundings. Tony finally moves but only to push the archer away with the little force he can muster thanks to the adrenaline. “Steve, help me out, man!”

Steve strides in their direction, determined to put an end to this and get Tony away from all the glass and directly to some safe and warm place. Before he can reach them, though, Tony leaps in Clint’s direction, grabbing the kid under the armpits and holding him against his chest, dragging him in the opposite direction. Steve can only observe with concern weighing in his chest as Tony rocks Peter in his arms. Tony doesn’t seem to notice that he is covering the kid in blood when he starts stroking his hair. Steve gives a caution step toward Tony, aware of how volatile he is right now. Clint is doing the same and thanks to his sharp reflexes is why he dodges Tony trying to stab him with a shard of glass.

“Shit,” Clint breathes out, his hands raised in front of him and his eyes like saucers. “Steve…”

“Yeah, I know. Try not to startle him again,” Steve tries to say with a calm voice but it’s difficult when Tony is in such a state of mind. He is bloody, full of cuts and bruises and his eyes, God _his eyes_. It’s hard for Steve to look at them because they’re maniacal, covered by a feverish glint. They’re vacant of Tony. It’s like the man isn’t even _in_ there.

“I’m so sorry,” comes out of the man’s mouth, his lips against the kid’s hair, and he doesn’t stop repeating it once he has started.

“Feel his pulse, Tony.” But Tony isn’t coming back out of his head.

Steve gives another step and retreats two when Tony jerks on the spot, making the glass under him scrunch. There’s already a scarlet puddle underneath him.

“Steve.” It’s Sam this time, just a foot behind him. “We gotta do something; he’s hurting himself.”

Steve wants to scream, to make them shut up because he knows damn well!

“Tony, look at me,” he tries to draw his attention, crouching at eye level. “Tony, you’re hurting yourself.” He’s just babbling, he knows, but what else can he do? He doesn’t want to hurt Tony even more but it looks like, right now, doing things by force is going to be the only way he will be able to get Tony out of this situation.

“Mantis, help him.”

Steve looks over his shoulder when he hears Drax’s words. There, near the door, is a girl—Steve would call her a woman if it wasn’t for how she holds herself like a scared kid. She’s dressed in green and black, two antennas growing out of her forehead. She’s looking at the floor, folded into herself and cowering away from everyone. She seems scared and yet she creeps until she’s mere inches away from Tony, kneeling by his side. Steve feels the whole room hold their breath when her antennas move in Tony’s direction and _glow_ , one of her palms raised like she’s trying to feel something. She suddenly jerks back with a woeful ‘oh no’ falling from her lips, her black eyes opening wide and her face contorting with terror and hurt. Steve feels the hair on his arms stand on end.

“I can help you.” Her voice is small and childlike. Steve isn’t sure if he’s heard right.

“What?” Tony asks but doesn’t lift his eyes, sounding like he’s coming out of a mental torpor.

“If you want me to I can make it better, make it go away at least for some time.” There are tears freely running down her cheeks now and a frantic note in her voice. Tony doesn’t answer, a frown taking over his face. His body is swaying and Steve fears that he’s going to fall on the crystals. “Please, let me make it stop,” Mantis says— _pleads_ with evident pain in her voice.

Steve doesn’t understand what is happening and a quick glance around the room makes it clear that no one from his team does, either. The Guardians, though, are looking at the scene with an expression Steve doesn’t know very well what to make out of. It seems like the five of them want to get to Tony and Mantis but know they shouldn’t, not yet. It makes him clench his fist, the need to act burning him.

“I can help,” she repeats, her hand inching closer to Tony. Instead of moving away, he holds Peter closer to his chest. There’s something like a whimper coming out of Tony’s chest, something wounded and scared. “I know it hurts. Let me make it go away.”

Steve feels the strain on his muscles accentuate to something painful, but he doesn’t let his body lead him to Tony, intent on trusting the Guardians.

The man finally gives a little nod of his head and Mantis places her hand delicately on his forehead, looking relieved; a shiver runs down Tony’s back and he closes his eyes in apparent bliss.

“What is she doing?” Steve can’t help but ask, advancing half a step.

“Mantis can sense other people’s emotions and manipulate them,” Gamora explains.

The room observes in silence as Tony heaves a deep sigh, like it’s the first one he’s taken in a long time. He slumps against Peter and before he can do anything else, Mantis touches the kid’s arm and whispers, “Wake up.” He blinks open his bleary eyes.

“Mr. Stark?” His voice is scratchy and it sounds like he’s not sure of the meaning of what he’s just said. Those words alone make him cough with effort.

“I thought I had…” But Tony doesn’t finish the sentence and instead clings to the kid. “Oh God. Please, don’t scare me like that ever again. _Please._ ” Steve can’t help it but hear Tony’s words, even when they are almost inaudible to the other's ears.

Steve averts his gaze, the oxygen finally making its way to his lungs in regular intervals. His eyes fall to Mantis, the poor girl still on the floor, trembling with her arms hugging her middle like that’s the only thing holding her together. Steve is about to go to her and see if she needs help when Drax beats him to it. He crouches at her side and touches her bare shoulder. She giggles tiredly.

“I don’t want to touch him anymore,” she says softly. Tony doesn’t give any signals that he has heard her—it appears that he and the kid are on their own safe bubble—but everyone else has. Sam and Clint have twin expressions of shock, their gazes trained on Tony. “It hurts. He hurts.”

While Drax helps Mantis up and he and Rocket escort her out of the room, Steve lets himself fall to the floor, exhausted. “We have to…” he tries to say, pointing at the two figures wrapped into each other on the floor, but he just doesn’t have it in himself to keep giving the orders, making the decisions. 

“Tony,” is Sam who takes the initiative, reminding Steve that he still has to talk with him about the Captain America mantle and who he is going to entrust it to. “Hey, Tony.” He looks up at Sam with a guarded expression and tries to move his body so it’s shielding more of Peter’s. Tony still isn’t _all_ there and Steve is sure that he’s not the only one who can see that. “You two have to go to the medical wing.” His tone is gentle but Tony is still frowning at him.

“No,” he practically snarls.

“I wanna stay with Mr. Stark,” Peter makes an effort to vocalize. It looks like he won’t be conscious for much more time and Steve doesn’t even understand how Tony hasn’t blacked out yet—before the attack his fever was still high, which makes him wonder if he isn’t currently having some kind of hallucinations.

“You two will be together,” Sam reassures them, “but you gotta get checked.” The kid’s hands are scorched and the sudden smell that invades Steve’s nostrils almost makes him retch.

Finally, Tony accedes and tries to help Peter up; he’s in such a bad shape that he’s not even able to get himself up. At least he doesn’t protest when Sam and Clint have to give them a hand. When they’re finally on their feet, Clint sweeping crystals out of their way with his boot, Tony doesn’t waste any time and gets an arm around Peter’s torso to support him, even though he needs Sam on his other side holding _him_ upright.

Steve can only observe, his body protesting when he tries to move. Clint and Sam get the other two on a relatively glass-free area and pass them to Gamora and Quill; she just sweeps Tony off of his feet while Quill and Peter decide that being carried piggyback is more _fun_. God, what is with this boy that can’t even stay on his feet and he’s still kidding around?

Steve finally jumps to his feet when everyone makes their way out of the destroyed room. He gets to Tony, who is already unconscious; Peter is in the same state.

“Cap, I’ll get them to medical, you don’t have to come. Go lay down or something before you pass out.” Sam already knows his words won’t have any effect on Steve, not even if he’s about to fall over, too.

“I’m going with them.”

Sam nods with a disapproving expression and starts walking. “I’ll find Bucky and Natasha then; you show them the way.”

Steve walks as close to Gamora as possible without tripping her over. A trail of blood follows behind them, the drops dripping on the floor.

“Shit, look at his hands,” Clint says from where the two Peters are. “We gotta get these… web-shooters or whatever off of his wrists.”

“Can’t you do it now?” Quill inquiries, frowning down at the charred devices.

“No. No, I think they’re… melted.”

“To his skin?” Quill asks with a shrill voice, a horrified expression taking over his face. 

“Yeah.” Clint’s face looks pale and green at the same time.

“We’ll see what we can do in the medical wing.” Probably telling them that he’s scared shitless of what’s going to happen to the kid isn’t the best idea—Steve is pretty sure everyone is already filled with enough fear for the kid’s wellbeing.

It isn’t that long until they arrive and put Tony and Peter on respective beds.

“Where is Vision?” Steve asks, watching as Gamora, Quill, and Clint start opening cabinets and drawers, loading their arms with medical resources and pilling them on a table near the two beds, Clint pointing where everything they need is since he knows the place a little bit better. Steve wants to help but feels like he would just get in the way. He settles on bringing them gauze sponges and a bucket with clean water to disinfect the wounds with.

“Tony told him to go reboot F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Quill answers.

“ _Forced_ him,” Gamora corrects, cutting Tony’s shredded and bloody pants off of him, some of the cloth already painfully attached to the open wounds.

The three of them get around the two wounded and get to work. Steve shuffles his feet, unsure of what to do but needing to make himself useful in any way. He finally decides to sit on one of the free beds, observing Quill and Gamora getting off the few parts of the Iron Man suit that are still attached to Tony; at least these ones haven’t melted. Jesus, Steve can almost _taste_ on his tongue the burned flesh.

“Shit, is cold as balls here,” Clint comments after five minutes of working in complete silence. He’s inspecting the destroyed gadget, trying to find a way to get it off.

“The compound has shut down, that must be it,” Steve comments idly, his head resting on his palm while he tries to discern between the three bodies standing on their feet what is going on with Tony and Peter. He’s stopping himself from getting off the bed and hovering over the two injured, knowing that it won’t do any good.

“Fuck. I think we’ll have to cut it off.” Steve’s stomach churns. He swallows with some trouble, suddenly not feeling that eager to get near the other two beds—but he makes himself stand, nevertheless.

“You want me to help?” he asks Clint who is rummaging with gloved hands through a cabinet.

“Probably. We’re gonna have to put him under general anesthesia and there are no fuckin' doctors here and I don’t know shit about how enhanced he’s and—Sam, come here! Sorry, Cap, but Sam is probably going to do better.” Clint gives him a little push when Steve doesn’t react on time and backs away.

Steve doesn’t tell him that he was ready to sell one of his arms not to do that. He _would_ have, there’s no doubt that he would have done everything Clint needed him to, but he is scared of being responsible of hurting the kid even further. He returns to his own bed but doesn’t sit this time, favoring the larger view.

Steve doesn’t consider himself squeamish, not when he’s been in trenches and has seen what war causes up close, but seeing Sam and Clint cutting and patching the kid back up… somehow it’s just too much and he has to sit down after a minute with his head between his knees, forcing himself to breathe. He doesn’t let himself look at the other bed.

Steve hears someone enter the hospital room with hurried steps. After less than a second, the mattress sinks under him when Bucky sits at his left. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to explain what happened to Tony and Peter, and he’s never been more grateful that Bucky only needs to take a look at his face and his body language to understand this. They’re sitting so close that there isn’t any space left between their thighs and arms. Bucky doesn’t reach out but Steve can almost feel Bucky’s need for physical reassurance—feel it like something pulsing inside his own breast.

 _When T’Challa informed us about the aliens…_ , Steve remembers Bucky saying to him so, so long ago. _I thought the universe was trying to separate us again._

So he decides not to care about his own fears and insecurities and takes Bucky’s flesh and bone hand between his own and squeezes. Bucky searches his face for something and whatever he ends up finding makes him give an almost imperceptible smile. They don’t let themselves melt into the touch like they want to but for now this is enough.

Steve has let his mind wander away to no specific place, when a sharp scream startles him.

“Jesus fuck!” Sam is cursing. “Clint, more Ketamine—or morphine, I don’t fuckin' know!”

Steve springs to his feet even when he doesn’t know what he’s going to do—there’s _nothing_ for him to do but—

“Steve, get out of here, for God’s sake! I can’t deal with you right now!” Sam orders, efficiently making Steve snap out of his shock. He hasn’t been aware of standing stock-still between the beds, making it impossible for all the others to do their job. Peter’s eyes are wide open and he’s trying to fight the others off, not aware of the state his arms are in. Gamora, it seems, is strong enough to hold him down while Clint administers the sedative.

“No no no…” The kid’s voice is fading away but he’s still doing his best to stay conscious.

“It’s okay, kiddo, we’re just patching you up,” Clint tries to calm him down.

“Peter, we’re going to take care of you,” it’s Gamora this time, stroking his face with gentle touch.

“And Tony,” Quill adds when he notices Peter staring in horror at Tony’s body.

Bucky is the one who drags Steve out of the room and helps him slide to the floor before he can witness what happens next.

“Hey, Steve. Steve, it’s not that bad, it was just a lot of blood but it’s not that bad.” Steve wants to believe him but his brain is having a lot of difficulties when it comes to imagining this not ending _horribly_ bad.

He feels his body crumple against the wall. It feels like his ribcage has been caved in. Bucky wraps his flesh arm around his shoulders and draws him closer to his chest. “Everything is going to be ok, Stevie.”

Steve tries to blink away the spots from his vision, trying to find a way to put into words whatever mess has taken over his mind. He’s lived through so much, from Nazis to aliens _to killing robots_ , and these last days have taken their toll on him in such an extensive and thorough way he would have never had imagined possible, and not only because of the serum inside his system.

Steve feels drained of energy, of a will to fight, of the strength to keep watching one disaster happen after another. And the worst perhaps is that Steve feels like this has been a way the world has of telling him that there is no exit from this life, not for him. That this is what he’s destined to do again and again and again… until he’s worn out and he’s finally dispensable. It felt so close… He felt so close to having a normal life, of at least finding out what exactly that means and how it feels. And now it appears the world is telling Steve to change his plans, that there’s still work he has to do; he hasn’t been freed yet, nor will he be any time soon.

Bucky moves Steve away from the cold wall without any difficulty and sits him between his legs, accommodating himself behind Steve and applying pressure to the blonde man’s waist with his thigs when he tries to get him out of his spiraling thoughts. The action impels Steve to pay attention to his own rigid muscles and lets himself relax against Bucky, resting his head on his shoulder. He doesn’t want to lose this, _this thing he almost had._ Bucky wraps his arms around him tighter when Steve hides his face in his neck, probably dampening his skin.

Even if Steve can’t see his face, he can almost feel the energy Bucky is putting into not speaking, knowing now is not the moment. He thinks he can’t love Bucky even more and he’s always proven wrong.

It’s maybe half an hour later when Sam cracks open the door to poke his head out. He opens his mouth, ready to speak, when he takes notice of the position in which Steve and Bucky are. Steve tries not to squirm, feeling like an insect pinned to a board, being studied. He leans in Sam’s direction, eager and dreading to hear whatever news he has, but doesn’t get away from the safe space that is Bucky.

“It’s done,” Sam finally says and Steve forgets himself for a second and sags into Bucky, feeling the other man’s arms wrapping tighter around him and giving a little sigh of relief against his hair. Inside his chest burns the desire to let himself get lost in the other’s touch and he hates the world a bit more when he can’t do just that.

Sam goes back inside, leaving the door ajar for them to follow and Steve and Bucky do just that after helping each other up. The first thing he notices is that Peter and Tony aren’t on the same beds as before but in a single and bigger one. “Tony woke up a minute ago and wouldn’t let go of the kid,” Sam explains. He and Clint start cleaning up while Gamora and Quill get chairs and sit around the bed.

“They’re okay?” He has to make sure. It feels like his throat is painfully closing up.

“The kid will probably have some nasty scars—it all depends on his healing factor and if he _even has one_ —and for Tony more of the same... without the help of a healing factor, of course.” Sam gives him a pat on the shoulder and drags him to the bed closer to Peter and Tony’s. It says a lot about his mental and physical condition that he can’t fight Sam. “Get some sleep, Steve.”

“Someone has to take care of the guys on Tony’s floor,” he says in turn. His eyes are itchy and his eyelids heavy, the floor under his feet moving. “And someone will come to ask questions about what happened and…” he trails off, rapidly losing his track of thought.

“Yeah, but it isn’t going to be you this time.” Just like that, Bucky and Sam push him down on the bed. “I don’t think I have to remind you the last time you got a good night’s sleep was probably a month ago,” Bucky adds.

“You can’t know that.” Bucky raises an unimpressed brow at Steve and shares a meaningful look with Sam. “Shut up, you two.”

“Sleep, Steve. It’s not on you this time.” It doesn’t feel like being benched; it feels like Sam is giving the finger to the world on Steve’s behalf.

“Buck, no, don’t go,” he says without meaning to. He holds a hand out, trying to reach his friend. God, when did he go so far away? He has the sudden urge to be close to him—no, it’s probably always been there, only this time his defenses have been… impaired and he can feel it more acutely.

“We’ll sort this out; you keep an eye on these guys,” Bucky says, pointing at the four blurry figures at Steve’s right. Sam and Clint are already at the door but Bucky takes his time to hold Steve’s hand and place a delicate kiss to his damaged knuckles (something he just catches sight of, feeling the sharp stab of pain for the first time), out of anyone’s sight. “I’ll be back, don’t you worry. You’re my best guy.” Steve can only nod when confronted with Buck’s blinding smile.

Bucky’s fingers slipping free from his feel more like a goodbye than what it actually means. The logical part of Steve’s brain knows that they will come back, that everything is under control, but nothing of that matters when the anxiety and uncertainty have their claws deeply sunken in Steve’s heart, making him break out in a cold sweat. He feels more vulnerable than ever but can’t make himself say anything, reach out for help and the reassurance he so desperately needs.

He observes Bucky reaching Sam, Clint already gone. Sam gives Bucky a pensive look that he then directs at Steve. “I should have seen that one.” Bucky only shrugs with a tiny smirk and then they exit the room, the two of them oblivious of Steve’s mental turmoil.

Steve looks at his right, trying to get his respiration under control. Gamora and Quill are at either side of the bed; Quill strategically positioned so he isn’t hiding the two convalescents from Steve’s view. “They’ll get better, Steve.” Gamora is looking at him with a soothing smile but he knows she isn’t free from apprehension. Steve nods his head once; it feels like is full of air. “You want us to check you over, too?” He shakes his head.

He is drifting off due to fatigue when there is suddenly something soft placed on top of him. He opens one eye and sees a blanket covering him, Quill already returning to his seat. Steve doesn’t even have to look to know that Peter and Tony are under a blanket or two, just like him.

“When Mantis touched Tony…” Quill’s voice creeps into the few conscious nooks of Steve’s brain. He opens an eye and observes the blurry image of Quill whose eyes are lingering on Tony’s sleeping form. He’s pretty sure the words aren’t meant for him. “She’s never reacted like that when touching someone, right? I mean, she’s influenced by other people’s emotions but that…”

“No, never like that,” Gamora concurs in a low voice.

Steve looks one more time at the two bodies on the bed before he lets himself sink into a deep, dreamless sleep, the last image he sees being of Peter enveloped in Tony’s arms. The two of them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this chapter in more or less 3 days and all the other time I spent editing the shit out of it. Hope it payed off; I was excited to post it but terrified at the same time. It scared me that the chapter wouldn’t be good enough because it kinda feels like all this has been nothing but a build-up to the _Mantis moment_ , so to speak, but that’s not what it is; the fic just grew into a proper story and not just the short story it was supposed to be in the beginning.
> 
> Disclaimer: I obviously don’t know shit about anesthesia and medical stuff so forgive me. I did some reading on the subject but, again, I don’t know shit and this stuff is complicated. If someone wants to contribute some facts, I’m all ears. 
> 
> Please give me death by comments since so few chapters are left and it's making me sad!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you have a kind of a massive chapter.

Tony has had for a long time now this theory, one that he hasn’t shared with anyone else because it would be embarrassing. _So_ , he has this theory that _if_ Heaven exists (and it’s a big if since he’s a man of science) and _if_ he ends up there some day (again, a big if), he will be welcomed by the people he loves the most. That’s the reason why, for a good two minutes, Tony is pretty much convinced that he’s finally croaked. It makes sense since Pepper and Rhodey are here and he hasn’t seen them in person in almost half a year.

“Nngh.” He’s pretty sure, too, that in Heaven there are no head-splitting headaches.

He wants water. He needs water. Why is no one offering him some water? It’s like he’s swallowing razors. “Nngh.” He can’t make his throat form any words.

Rhodey finally shows some mercy and brings him a glass of water with a straw. Tony finishes the glass in four gulps, chokes on the water at least six times, and eventually gives his friend a nod and a wobbly but grateful smile. Rhodey leaves the glass on a table and settles back on his seat just to stare intently at Tony.

“Is good to see you conscious, Mr. Stank,” is his greeting. The room may be spinning for Tony’s senses but he notices that his friend’s eyes are too bright, his smile strained and unsteady at the corners. Rhodey can’t stay still and is shifting in his chair every few seconds.

“Have you even seen your legs?” Pepper questions, her tone too calm to mean anything good and her arms crossed in front of her chest, but her voice trembles at the end of the sentence and her hands are balled in white fists. There is no “How are you feeling, Tony?”, no “How are your last projects coming out, Tony?”, not even her favorite: “You have paperwork to sign.” It’s like Tony hasn’t spent the last months flagrantly avoiding her.

“No, why? They’re still there, right?” he asks stupidly. He’s staring too much, blinking too little. He’s aware of his body doing that but he can’t do much to control it. He feels like he’s received a blow to the head.

“They look like Swiss cheese,” Rhodey fills in. So he’s going to play the good cop. Typical.

“Oh.” Tony tries to move the blanket away from his legs so he can check the damage by himself. The only problem is that his hands are too clumsy and thoroughly bandaged. He looks at them, feeling lost.

“Yeah, your hands too,” Rhodey says helpfully, his tone softer.

His hands are… are… His hands are not okay. His hands are wrapped in bandages because _his hands_ have been hurt. But… but he needs his hands; he’s an inventor! What is he going to do now?! How is he going to live without his hands?! _Oh, God, please no, please not this._

“Tony. Tony, look at me.” Rhodey is squeezing gently his shoulders, the pressure managing to bring him back and make his vision swim back into focus. He moves his head so he’s facing his friend, looking for answers, for some kind of comfort. “It’s not a serious injury, I swear to you. You will be able to build weird shit in a week, I promise.”

Tony nods his head, still feeling lightheaded, but he trusts Rhodey and he trusts Pepper. She is at his other side, nodding along to everything Rhodey has been saying and holding Tony’s hand, looking at him with a concerned expression. He tries to smile but it immediately brings pain to his face.

“Your face is doing great too, yeah,” Rhodey deadpans, reminding Tony’s dizzy brain that he’s still in the room. Tony’s brain isn’t fully operational.

It feels like his body is made of stone, weighing him down and pinning him to the bed. His breathing is shallow and it’s like ants are crawling up and down his arms, all of this completed by the black spots dancing in front of his vision.

Tony is trying to remember what happened. There was an attack but the events are still hazy in his mind. It hurts to force himself to think but there is something just out of reach that he knows it’s important for him to remember, something crucial…

“Peter!”

He’s already fumbling with the covers, his legs entangled in them and screaming in pain when he makes any movement. Tony is going to register said pain just as a mild inconvenience until he finds Peter and makes sure he’s safe. But it looks like his friends don’t think the same way, taking into consideration that they’re trying to maneuver him back into the hospital bed, both doing their damn best not to hurt him even further in the process; too bad there isn’t a patch of skin in his body that isn’t bruised, cut, or both. Tony feels like a raw piece of minced meat.

Tony makes a sharp movement with his hand that Rhodey counteracts with one of his own; Pepper gives a loud and shocked scream. “Tony, don’t summon any armor, for God’s sake!”

“Then tell me where Peter is!” Tony demands, giving up in the end and letting them get him into bed again, wrapping the blanket around him as if it’s a straightjacket. Tony gets his arms out with a grunt of effort and matching expressions of disapproval from Rhodey and Pepper, both of their breaths accelerated thanks to the exertion.

“He’s alright, Tony, okay?” Rhodey assures him. “You’ll even see him _but later_.”

“Yes, after you explain why F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed me about you wanting to get into the prosthetic and orthotic business and that I have to talk with the Board to open a new division _and_ when I try to call you I can’t get to you. It didn’t even go to voicemail, Tony!” He’s paying attention to Pepper’s every move while she speaks and flails her arms expressively in the air. He hates himself and knows he’s going to get into trouble but he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat. Pepper’s expression is terrifying.

“Pepper, he’s still on painkillers; don’t hold it against him,” Rhodey tries to calm her down when she narrows her eyes to slits and her muscles tense like the ones of a feline about to jump on its prey.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., how is his fever?” she asks after a minute, voice strained.

“His fever broke almost an hour ago, Miss Potts.”

“Miss Potts,” Tony giggles under his breath without meaning to. Pepper glares at him with enough power to melt metal but Rhodey is trying to hide that he’s silently laughing.

“Good,” Pepper answers with a terse intonation. “All right,” she says after a minute, sighing and shaking her head. “Now it’s not the time for this. You will eat your soup and then you will get back to sleep.” It doesn’t feel like a command but neither does it feel like a suggestion.

“Okay, ma'am.” And Pepper is back to scowling.

Tony, with the help of Rhodey, does finish his soup. He sighs contently, already having forgotten about whatever they had been talking about ten minutes ago. He gets himself comfortable against the pillows, even though the bed—weirdly enough—feels too big all of a sudden.

“We met your new friends. Alien friends,” Rhodey comments after a long stretch of silence.

“One of them is _Terran_ ,” Pepper says, as if she finds the word funny or weird; Tony’s brain can’t tell right now which it is.

“Whatever. They came from _space_ in a _spaceship_. They were kind enough to show it to us,” Rhodey adds with a dry tone and an arched brow, like he’s asking Tony _for real, man?_

“Oh, honey bear, don’t be jealous; I’m not trying to replace you,” Tony drawls, trying to enunciate the words with care so they will be understandable.

“I know.” Rhodey smirks but can’t help it and eventually gives Tony a softer smile, his hand running through the engineer’s hair. “Idiot.”

Tony looks at his friends through heavy-lidded eyes, Rhodey at his left and Pepper at his right. They look worried and they are too far away; Tony would like to tell them but his mouth feels full of cotton—it feels like _everything_ is wrapped in a thick layer of cotton.

He smiles at them and falls asleep after his third blink.

 

If the first time Tony woke up he thought he was in Heaven, this time the first thing that crosses his mind is: “I must be in Purgatory expiating my sins.” And who better but Bucky Barnes to do the work.

Tony isn’t feeling as concerned as he should be so he takes Barnes’ distracted appearance to observe the man while he has the chance. There’s not much being given away, actually, maybe because Tony is still drugged, probably because Barnes is just that good at keeping a blank façade.

Tony notices then that he isn’t in the medical wing but in a bedroom he doesn’t recognize—it must be one of the numerous apartments of the facility. Barnes is at his left and some feet away, leafing through a book and apparently unaware of Tony being awake.

“Don’t worry,” _(Ugh.)_ “your friends will be back in a moment.” Barnes shuts the book closed and places it back in its slit between all the others, straightening up his back. For just a second, the man twists his hands restlessly and an uncertain expression takes over his features. By the time he turns to face Tony completely, none of that is shown, the lines of his face pleasantly relaxed.

“How are you doing, Mr. Stark?” Tony gapes like a fish. He will probably need an entire day to process that Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, ex-Winter Soldier, the guy Tony _tried to kill_ a year ago, just had the courtesy, the _politesse_ to address him as _Mister_. It has to be the drugs, they must be making him hallucinate, even though Tony can feel them wearing off. Whoever raised James Barnes deserves all the recognition if his manners survived 70 years of HYDRA’s own MKUltra project.

It just feels weird coming out of his mouth. And, at the same time, it forces a fact to be slotted in Tony’s brain: just like Steve, this man is younger than people think at first sight or when they hear the name of Bucky Barnes. The man may have been born in the 1920s, but he probably hasn’t lived much more than thirty years of his life.

“'Cause Steve is like crazy out there and I’ve had to ban him from getting here because he’s going to start fussing and fretting. I guess you know how annoying that can get sometimes,” Barnes rambles on when Tony doesn’t answer his question, his tone carefree and his voice adopting a nice cadence to listen to, all this topped by a smile that’s like… honey, Tony’s tired brain supplies.

Barnes gives Tony another half a minute to speak but he doesn’t. He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable but hell-bent on not leaving without first carrying out whatever he’s come here to do. Tony can see the resemblance with Steve there.

“I wanted to speak with you, Mr. Stark.” 

“Uh.” Is the only thing he can get out of his mouth. Barnes frowns slightly, giving a tentative half-step in his direction.

“Do you want me to call someone?” He takes an abrupt step back, something like comprehension dawning on him. “I can leave.” He’s pointing at the door behind himself and his confident attitude is immediately dropped.

Can someone explain to Tony why this guy is being so polite and… _kind_? Tony fucking blew his arm off, for God’s sake, he should act like it! So, perhaps Tony had hoped for Barnes to be a douchebag to him—something he would have understood and even felt he deserved—because that would mean that Tony doesn’t have to feel so awful every time he sees the man. And, maybe, now it’s not the best of moments to remember teenager Tony and his freaking bisexual awakening thanks to Sargent Barnes.

_Jesus Christ, this is the worst way to meet your childhood heroes._

Or perhaps the second. The first being discovering that your childhood hero was brainwashed into killing your parents.

Too much time has already passed and Barnes is obviously about to bolt and leave the room, but Tony’s curiosity has been already piqued and he can’t let the other man go. “Just don’t call me Mr. Stark and we’ll be okay. Just Stark is good.” Phew, he almost sounded smooth and thank God he didn’t choke on his own tongue.

Tony lifts a hand to take the glass of water from the nightstand at his left but there’s the problem of his bandaged hands, which feel clumsy and uncoordinated. An uncomfortable silence looms over them.

“You want me to help?”

Tony’s head snaps up, thrown by his words. He’s pretty sure he’s heard wrong. Fuck this guy. No, no, no, don’t think that this is the guy that’s fucking Captain America!

“Stupid brain,” he mutters, his hand returning to his side.

“Excuse me?” Barnes asks, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline.

“I’m still on painkillers.” Tony doesn’t need a lot of time to realize that maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing to say and probably not the best of explanations.

“Oh. Then I’ll make it quick, don’t worry.”

_Please, end my suffering._

But Barnes doesn’t really make it quick. He opens his mouth ready to speak but then closes it with a snap of his teeth. He looks at Tony, then lowers his eyes to the floor and, after a brief moment, he directs a frustrated expression at the wall at his right. Eventually, his shoulders slump and he strides to the chair where Rhodey had been sitting last time Tony was conscious (or where he would have been sitting if Tony was still in the medical wing); he drags it silently away from the bed, though, mindful of Tony’s _comfort levels_ or something as chivalrous as that.

“I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay here.” Barnes’ earnest expression is making Tony have a paradoxical experience. Something heavy is installing itself in Tony’s chest at the same time that something vacates it, a rotten thing that made Tony its home the moment he watched that damned video footage in Siberia. “I know it must be hard for you to let me inside your home so I wanted to thank you personally. And I know it’s not enough to repay you but, um, yeah, I just wanted to thank you.” Barnes’ gentle smile is fading little by little with each second that Tony stays silent, just blinking stupidly at him.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I should leave now,” Barnes stammers, his flesh hand running through his hair and pulling. His cheeks seem to blush darker and his brow is furrowed. “Sorry if I’ve wasted your time.” He’s making his way to the door with long strides.

“Hey!” Barnes turns at Tony’s harsh call. Tony clears his throat, his eyes roaming over the blankets while he straightens them up, needing to do something with his hands and not feeling able to look the other man in the eye. “It wasn’t a hardship. And you don’t have to repay me anything.”

From the corner of his eye, Tony can see Barnes hovering, probably waiting for Tony to say something that isn’t moronic. Tony has the opportunity to say more, to get out whatever it is that he’s wanted to say for the last months, all those nights he’s had time to turn over and over in his head what he should say to the man if they ever see each other again.

“I know it wasn’t really you.” Tony gives Barnes a moment to react. Something grazing on masochistic takes over Tony when he stares intently at Barnes, wanting to witness whatever the man’s reaction is going to be. He feels himself slump against the pillows when his expression stays devoid of emotion.

“It was me.” His voice is rough with emotion and the small smirk on his lips is devoid of any humor. It’s something painful to witness; this turmoil of emotions Tony is having the opportunity to have a glimpse at. Be careful what you wish for and all that.

Tony’s first impulse is to contradict him but Barnes’ tone is the one of someone who’s had enough time to ponder over the subject and come to a final conclusion. It doesn’t feel like he’s found any closure, though. Even so, Tony is sure he won’t achieve anything if he insists on the matter.

“Well… at least I know there’s a difference between the Winter Soldier and you.”

Barnes doesn’t say anything to that, only nods and exits hastily the room. Great, now Tony is the one responsible for making Barnes go all sullen and sad.

Tony sighs and takes almost five minutes to lift and then drink his water. He settles against his pillows, determined to nap for another hour before getting back on his feet. He’s falling asleep when his brain finally catches up with the last ten minutes, and an observation floats unhurriedly to the front of his mind: Barnes was wearing one of the Iron Man t-shirts Tony had sneaked as a joke in his and Steve’s clothes.

 

Tony wakes up a third time, hoping this one he will have enough strength to get out of bed. He gives his muscles a full body stretch, all his limbs hissing in pain and his bones popping into place. He grunts, trying to roll out of bed and finding it not only impossible but painful and frustrating.

“Do you need assistance, boss?”

“Ugh. No, thanks. I’m not in the mood of anyone seeing me like this.” He knows that ship has long sailed and sunk but he likes to think he conserves some of his dignity untouched.

“As you wish.”

“God, I probably look like a turtle on its back.”

“I can see the resemblance.”

“I shouldn’t have told Vision to reboot you.” Banter with his creations; this, Tony is familiar with.

“I don’t think that would have been a strategically sound decision, boss.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Tony retorts with an awful Scottish accent that makes even him wince. 

“Fry,” he says after five minutes of absolutely nothing to fill them with. “Without counting the naps, how much time have I slept?”

“Almost eleven hours,” she answers dutifully without missing a beat.

“Ah.” Tony blinks with disbelief. “Really?” That hasn’t happened probably in decades.

“Your body was in need of rest. I would recommend a couple more hours.”

“Yeah, nah.”

Tony taps his fingers by his sides on the bed, unsure of how to proceed. He’s positive he will need around fifteen minutes to get out of bed, at least if he’s going to do it on his own. On the other hand, he’s not sure if he wants to get out of the bedroom itself.

“How are things out there, Fry?” For now, his A.I. being his eyes it’s his solution to the problem.

“Calm.” He smiles at the simple answer. It’s actually reassuring. “Miss Parker is currently in the compound.”

“Oh. Oh shit.”

His stomach clenches painfully and Tony swallows with some difficulty due to the sudden knot in his parched throat. “Guess I should go find her and beg her not to take Peter away,” he tries to joke but it fails miserably.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t add more to the conversation and Tony is grateful for the silence. He spends the big part of half an hour with his eyes glued to the ceiling, just thinking. Eventually, he forces his heavy-feeling body to roll to the side, trying to massage his back with his injured hands, when the door to his bedroom is opened. He settles on his back again with a grunt, closing his eyes when the pain makes him nauseous.

“Glad to see you’re awake again,” Rhodey says too cheerfully for all of it to be real.

“I was actually thinking about faking my death,” Tony jests, his eyes still closed. He exhales a breath.

“Maybe you should think about getting a haircut and a shave, first,” Rhodey interjects.

“ _But_ ,” Tony acts as if his friend hasn’t spoken a word, “then I realized that I would have to fake Peter’s death, _obviously_ , which would mean that I would have to fake his aunt May’s _and_ his BFF’s, Ned. And that is just too much work.”

Tony hears Rhodey’s laugh and Pepper’s amused huff of breath but it’s the third laugh that makes him open his eyes.

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says with a warm smile. “How are you feeling?”

Rhodey and Pepper are already on their respective seats, sharing knowing looks, while Steve remains on his feet in front of the bed. Tony doesn’t want to admit it but it makes something ease in him, seeing Steve watching over him, over them.

“Like a hamburger that’s been run over by a tractor multiple times just in case.”

“That isn’t worryingly specific,” Rhodey comments with an expression that Tony can only interpret as weirded out. Tony shrugs, still looking at Steve—there are enough drugs remaining in his system for him to still think that Steve could be a hallucination. “Hey, I meant to ask you before: F.R.I.D.A.Y. is wired in the compound but she used to be only in your armor. Why is that?”

“It was too silent after you left,” Tony answers without much thought. He regrets it immediately when an awkward silence falls. Steve’s eyebrows are pinched together and he lowers his head, his mouth turning into a white line. It’s like Tony has pointed at him with his finger and told him global warming is his fault or something as ludicrous. Tony doesn’t want to look at his other two friends’ expressions.

“Uh… it’s someone going to help me get out of bed?” The three of them look at him in unison; Tony can feel their gazes. He’s pretty sure the three of them will each tell him a different reason why he should not get out of bed, but he’s surprised when Steve speaks.

“Yeah, okay.”

Tony’s eyebrows climb to his forehead and he gives Pepper and Rhodey a triumphant grin when Steve gets to his left side and helps him sit upright and get his feet on the floor. He’s glad to see that someone has dressed him in sweatpants and a thick sweater, his feet in woolen socks he doesn’t remember owning. Steve gently wraps an arm around his middle and places Tony’s arm around his shoulders. “This okay?” Tony nods, letting himself slump against Steve and giving a tentative step. He hisses in agony, his breath already getting labored while he tries to hold at bay the tears of pain.

There’s a hand on his forearm and when he looks at his right Pepper is there with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He drinks both and thanks her with a smile. The four of them make their slow way to the elevator, Tony’s abdomen and back hurting even when he can tell that Steve is being as gentle as possible.

“Where to?” Steve is the first to ask.

“Kitchen,” Pepper is who answers, saving Tony from having to do it—it would be too much effort. “You’re going to eat something, Tony, and then you’re going to sit in front of the TV and rest.” Again, her words aren’t an outright command but neither do they feel like a mere recommendation.

No one contradicts her so they get in the elevator and let F.R.I.D.A.Y. take them to the right floor. Tony is half slumped against Steve and half against the wall, breathing deeply and waiting for the fog to clear.

“You okay, Tony?” Rhodey asks and Tony can already sense Pepper’s and Steve’s concerned gazes.

“Don’t fret.”

“You’re making it kinda difficult not to, lately,” Rhodey retorts without missing a beat. Tony’s only response is a grunt.

“By the way, thanks for the Iron Man clothes,” Steve blurts out with a crooked smile, peering down at Tony. Just now, he notices that Steve is wearing a pair of dark jeans and a soft-looking sweater.

“We aim to please.”

“Bucky loves them,” Steve informs him with that look Tony has noticed he gets when he’s around the other man. It’s definitely not sweet. Tony holds back a smile.

“Oh. Really?” Tony obviously noticed Barnes wearing one of the t-shirts but had assumed it was because he needed something that wasn’t Steve’s pajamas. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that he could actually like the clothes. It causes an image to spring up in his mind, almost making him laugh maniacally. Erin’s step-daughter always visits the compound dressed up as Iron Man, something that makes Tony want to cry and hug her for hours every time he sees her. It’s weird that he’s feeling almost the same way now—that, and stunned. 

“Yeah, he thinks you’re the coolest Avenger.” Steve winks at him when Tony’s head snaps up, sure that he’s misheard or that Steve is pulling his leg. There is no derision in his face. “He’s always been, uh, a nerd, as Clint calls it. Or was it _geek_?”

“No, I think nerd is the word you’re looking for,” Tony says absentmindedly.

“Well, you’re his favorite, which isn’t hurtful _at all_ ,” Steve says with a feigned tone of offense, going as far as pouting. Tony actually snickers at the image. “He says he favors brains over brawn.”

“Your boy is a charmer.” Tony is ready to point out that Steve’s face has turned red just to tease him, when an idea appears suddenly before his eyes. “Oh, that reminds me: I have some new toys to show you guys,” he declares off-handedly. The doors open before them and, even though Pepper and Rhodey exit the elevator, Steve doesn’t move. Tony peers at him and sees his face scrunched in confusion. “You okay, winghead?”

This makes Steve’s expression relax a little but he still looks puzzled. “New toys?”

“Yeah, made Clint a new bow, some new silly gadgets for Natasha… Your boy can come and take a look at them.” Steve’s expression is starting to make Tony unsure of whether he’s said something stupid. “Uh, well, or not, he doesn’t have to. I mean, there is no reason why he should find that stuff interesting.”

Pepper takes a step in their direction and the movement must finally make Steve snap out of whatever musings he was engrossed into. He shakes his head and helps Tony out of the elevator. “Oh. Um, no, no. I’m sure Buck will love it, more than that. Maybe he will even understand some of your science jargon—he’s really smart.” Tony catches himself smiling at the affectionate tone and words. “It’s just…”

Making their way along the hallway, Tony hears music. Loud music. He strains his ears trying to recognize the song.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve finishes saying, securing more firmly his arm around him. “I would be really glad if you showed us your new inventions, Tony.” And he sounds genuine, his voice making Tony’s insides warm. He has to remind himself not to let it go to his head.

“Fry, tell Dum-E to bring me the new gadgets to the rec room. If he needs any help send Vision; I don’t want the Three Stooges to get stuck again.”

“Understood.”

When they have almost reached the kitchen entrance, Tony finally makes out the song. “There’s only one person who can be listening to Pat Benatar in this century and it’s Quill, I tell you.” Or at least that is what he thinks until he hears Clint shouting for Quill to play _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_. The song starts blaring at full volume after a second. Shouts of protest are heard from the rest of the household; they are obviously ignored in favor of a duo.

“The next song will be _Maneater_ ,” Natasha makes herself heard over all the noise and her statement is followed by Sam’s shouts of encouragement. The volume is notably turned down.

“It’s kinda refreshing to meet someone else who has no idea what is going on in this century… on Earth,” Steve comments with a self-deprecating half-smile. Tony pats him on the head and Steve rolls his eyes good-natured.

Pepper and Rhodey have already entered the kitchen but when Tony and Steve follow them, there’s suddenly a shout and Steve’s hand shoots in front of Tony’s face. He gives himself a moment to process what just happened, blinking his eyes. He gazes up at Steve, looking for an explanation; Steve is frowning but not in his direction.

“Uh…” comes Clint’s voice, tentative. Tony looks at him; Clint has his palms raised in front of his chest, eyes wide open. “Shit. Okay, I can assure you that _that_ wasn’t on purpose,” Clint hastily assures them.

Tony looks at Steve’s hand, still holding whatever was thrown at him. “Barton, why are you throwing pancakes at me?”

“It wasn’t…!” Clint cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. The music is now almost inaudible and the situation is even more uncomfortable thanks to the fact that everyone’s rapt attention is on them, the room holding its breath. “I wasn’t throwing it at you, really.”

“At who, then?” Tony asks, curious. He’s helped by Steve to sit down on one of the chairs around the dining table and he thanks him with a smile immediately returned by the blonde man.

Clint doesn’t answer straight away but he does send a dirty look at Quill who is now hiding behind the kitchen island, an innocent expression on his face. Gamora is scowling at him, too, which means he must have done something. “What did you do?” Tony asks.

“Nothing—”

“Dude, you poured half the salt into my pancakes! Into the batter and then made them!” Clint exclaims with an outraged expression. “And gave them to me!” he finishes his chopped up retelling of the events.

Tony looks at Quill with wide eyes, wanting to know if he’s really done something that childish. He only shrugs his shoulders, unruffled by the accusation. “He deserved it.”

Tony really wishes to know what to say. Pat Benatar is still playing lowly in the background. There’s a knot in his stomach that becomes more painful with every second that passes and no one says anything. Shit. He doesn’t want more conflicts, is that so much to ask for?

The silence stretches.

“Yeah, okay.” And just with those words, Clint goes to make himself some pancakes and Tony lets out the air he has been keeping in his lungs for almost a full minute.

There’s a hand on his back and when he looks up he sees Gamora smiling at him. He smiles back, of course—he’s only human and a drugged one, still.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” It’s Quill who asks, already having made his way to Tony’s chair, still glancing at Clint, waiting for the marksman to take his revenge. He places his hands on Tony’s cheeks and lifts his face to inspect it. He frowns, concentrated, and hums, but spends at least a minute in the same position without saying a thing.

“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

“Um, well, you look paler.” Quill scratches his head, probably racking his brain for some fancy words. The strained features make Tony notice that Quill looks tired, too.

“Thanks, that was truly enlightening, Peter,” Gamora scoffs from behind Tony. She’s close enough for him to feel her presence; Tony can hear her when she starts puttering about. He’s torn between turning around to see her and keeping his eyes trained on Quill’s. He’s doing a bit of unabashed staring but that’s okay because Quill is in the same position.

“Stick to being the eye candy,” Tony jokes with a smirk.

“Hey, I’m smart too, just so you know.” His tone caries some real offense and hurt even though he tries to mask it with his usual indifference and cockiness. It makes Tony have some insight and he believes that Quill has been wrongly treated as a meathead by a lot of real idiots.

“I know, don’t worry,” Tony assures Quill, patting his hip affectionately. It must show on his face that he truly means it because Quill smiles at him and cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, tugging gently until Tony yields and rests his head against his hip. Tony sighs placidly, letting himself be wrapped by all the familiar sounds around him.

It’s scary when things seem to be getting better, not only because Tony fears that they won’t last, but because he knows they can’t. Life has made him believe that the world enjoys lulling him into a false sense of security so the next hit will hurt even more than the previous one. It’s a frustrating and exhausting way of thinking, and probably that’s why this time Tony just thinks _‘‘screw it’’_ and gives himself permission to savor this moment of bliss. He sees it a bit like an act of defiance against his own mind.

It doesn’t matter how much it will last. Maybe the uncertainty is why he should let himself enjoy it.

There’s a tingle that runs over his skin that causes Tony’s face to scrunch with confusion, his eyes kept shut for a bit longer. He opens an eye and almost immediately understands why he’s being closely observed by half a dozen people. To be honest, Tony himself is unsure of the nature of his relationship with Gamora and Quill, but for the others—the ones looking at him right now—must be even weirder; especially for Rhodey and Pepper who have just arrived.

He obviously hasn’t discussed it with the other two, not only because there hasn’t been an occasion, but for the fear of making a fool of himself. It’s plain as day that there is something between Gamora and Quill so Tony is pretty sure that whatever their behavior toward him means, it can’t be anything but platonic and friendly. There _is_ a lot of hand-holding and caresses, Tony has noticed, but maybe it’s just something usual in space. Tony is determined to enjoy whatever they’re willing to give him. He will take and treasure and remember these moments after they leave Earth. Because they will and this fact is dawning on Tony for the first time.

And not to mention that he’s _old_ , for God’s sake, his mind so very helpfully supplies. They’re in the prime of life, traveling through space and having adventures, and here he is, thinking about something as trifling as… what? What is he even thinking about? That he can have a one-night stand with them if he has a little luck? Tony doesn’t want something as superficial as that, hasn’t wanted for a long, long time to get himself in such a situation with someone, but there isn’t a lot more he can get from them. Perhaps it’s a good thing that he doesn’t have to worry about that because there is no chance in hell any one of the two of them wants that from him.

Tony can’t feel more disgusted by himself. Here are these awe-inspiring people that have literally come from heaven, showing him kindness, and Tony wastes time thinking about… _this_. His brain doesn’t even grace him with an adequate term, doesn’t think it’s worth it.

“Tony?” Quill’s voice drags him out of his mind. Tony lifts his head, just now noticing that he’s drawn away from the other man’s touch. Quill is looking down at him with a little frown. Tony chances a look at the rest of the room and feels relieved when he makes sure no one is still paying them any attention or at least playing the part. Most of them aren’t even in the kitchen area anymore and no one else is at the table but him and Quill; Gamora has her head in the fridge. “Are you feeling sick?”

Tony wants to answer but he can feel the tears building behind his eyes and knows what will happen if he tries to speak. He shakes his head but Quill is still looking closely at him. Tony needs Quill to look away from his face. He bites down on his lip, willing the panic away.

“Ey, it’s okay.” Something in Tony’s expression must alarm Quill that not everything is all right. “Are you overwhelmed, is that it?” he asks with a gentle tone, his thumbs running over Tony’s cheekbones. He wants to cry out of shame when some of the tears spill at the corners of his eyes and make their way to his untrimmed beard. God, and he must look like a hobo.

“What is it?” Gamora’s voice comes followed by her palm on his shoulder. He can’t see her but he catches Quill looking over his head and exchanging a glance with Gamora. Tony only wants for the ground to open up under his feet and swallow him whole.

But it appears that Tony is a weak man and his body and mind only need for him to be held between the man and woman and there is sudden bliss reigning inside his head. A sigh makes its way between his lips and his eyes slide closed, his head resting against Gamora’s belly. He opens lazy eyes and peers up at her.

“Hello there, handsome.” She directs an amused smirk down at him, her arms around his neck. Tony’s face lights up with a timid smile and his hand holds onto Gamora’s forearm.

Her hands start massaging his shoulders and Tony can’t help the groan that escapes him. Gamora only chuckles. Tony slumps forward, grateful for the attention his muscles are receiving. Quill has dragged a chair in front of Tony’s but he gets to his feet and starts puttering around the kitchen. Tony hopes he’s about to make some breakfast because his stomach is starting to hurt and he knows he won’t be able to stand upright on his legs for more than half a second.

After some minutes, Tony feels and sees Quill approach from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t sit on the chair but instead gently lifts Tony’s left hand and inspects the bandage; after a minute he does the same with the right one. Quill hums pensively while Tony hums in delight when Gamora’s fingers dig into his muscles.

“Your back is full with knots,” she observes in a mild manner. Tony tries to find his voice and fails, so he settles on humming in agreement. After another short moment of silence only interrupted by the people in the rec area, Gamora speaks again. “Tony, there was something we wanted to ask you with Quill.”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Tony says, straightening up a bit. “Yeah, the touring. I mean, the outing, day trip, call it whatever you like. I have actually some ideas; made a mental list and everything while lazing around in bed.” He’s conscious of his babbling but it’s difficult to shut up when he feels like he has explanations to give. “Fuck. You came here for a vacation and I shot you out of the sky and _then_ you had to deal with all this drama,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. The collar of his sweater feels too tight all of a sudden.

Quill’s hand on Tony’s thigh, squeezing, silences him and draws his attention. “Don’t worry about that, Tony. And we didn’t expect you to organize an excursion or anything or to come with us.” Tony’s face falls and he immediately tries to mask it but doesn’t know how; any other expression would feel too forced and he would have to put too much energy into faking it.

“What Peter is trying to say,” Gamora intervenes, “is that we didn’t expect you to set aside any of your obligations or plans just to come with us. But we would love it if you decide to join in.”

Tony isn’t sure if she’s being honest or just trying not to hurt his feelings. Fortunately, he needs only a moment to realize that, if there is something he has learned in the short time they have spent together is that Gamora would surely tell him straight off if she didn’t want him to accompany them.

“I would love to come,” Tony finally states.

“Awesome!” Quill exclaims, jumping in his seat.

“Then what did you want to ask me?”

Quill looks unsure in the face of the question but Gamora, without stopping the deft movement of her hands and fingers, shoots the question without any hesitation. “What do you think about relationships with multiple partners, Tony?”

Tony remains frozen, his lips parted and trying to form words. He snaps his jaw shut. Is this some kind of joke? Are they trying to play a joke on him? His stomach sinks at the mere idea. Maybe… maybe they really want to know his opinion on the matter for some reason? When he looks up at Gamora, she has an arched brow and a smirk, expecting an answer (Tony may have spent a little too much time staring at her captivating face-marks. He just has so many questions to ask.) He lowers his head to read Quill’s expression but his thoughts are cut short when the man in question jumps from his seat and shouts. “No, no! Mantis, it’s not necessary anymore!”

Tony turns his head to see what is going on just in time to see Barnes extending a hand in Mantis' direction with a polite smile, about to introduce himself. Tony doesn’t understand the cause of Quill’s distress or why Gamora has withdrawn her hands and given a sharp step in the rec room’s direction.

It’s clarified after a short moment, of course.

Mantis, with her insecure and scared demeanor, is grasping Barnes’ outstretched hand with her own; it looks like she wants to react to Quill’s words but her body isn’t letting her get distracted from the man in front of her. There is something at the back of Tony’s mind, something screaming to be paid attention to. Tony knows that he’s already met Mantis; doesn’t really remember what happened but he does remember her face. Whatever that’s jumping in his mind has to do with the time they met. There is a fleeting sensation…

When he’s about to catch it, it happens.

Mantis freezes, mouth opened like she’s screaming but no sound comes out. She looks in _pain_ , face contorted with abject terror and antennas suddenly brightly glowing. Tony’s first thought is _“the metal arm.”_ But Barnes is holding her hand with his flesh and bone one—and he wouldn’t hurt her, Tony is convinced of that. In fact, Barnes looks just as confused as all the others; he’s parting his lips, probably about to ask if she’s all right. Tony doesn’t have time to check on Gamora and Quill’s reaction.

Mantis has her eyes tightly shut, like the pain is growing by the second, her labored breathing easy to hear in the now mute room. Barnes is about to take a step back, the trembling of her body making itself noticed, when she brusquely lifts her other palm and strikes him right in the center of his chest.

“Go away!” The shout resonates in the large room. Everyone—even Steve—remains petrified when Barnes’ body slides along the floor, brought to a stop only by the half wall that divides rec room from kitchen.

Tony feels his heart pounding furiously against his chest when Barnes finally moves. He gets on his knees with some difficulty, rocking like he’s drunk and long hair obscuring his face when it sways. Tony catches Steve moving on the corner of his eye but doesn’t, not for a second, get his gaze away from Barnes. Something feels off. It’s like… it’s like this is another man, he can tell just by the way he’s looking at the ground, unseeingly. It doesn’t feel safe to be this close, to be in the same building as him. By his sides, Gamora and Quill advance. Tony notices that everyone present is in a defensive position, some of them even with their hands hovering over a weapon.

Steve, though, is slowly approaching his friend, face drained from any color. “Bucky?” There is no answer.

Tony wants to summon his armor but recognizes it as a dangerous idea. He stays on his spot, just like everyone else, eyes on Steve.

“Buck, answer me.” His tone is a bit more authoritative, but Barnes doesn’t give any signal that he’s heard. Instead, there’s a little twitch of his body that makes the whole room twitch along, on edge.

Tony’s attention is so thoroughly fixed on Steve that he can see his throat bob when he swallows with some difficulty. His voice is consciously and forcedly dispassionate, nearing on a dead tone when he says, “ _Soldat?_ ”

The effect is immediate, so much that everyone—except Natasha and Steve, whose complexion has gone ashen—take half a step back. Barnes is still on his knees, head bowed and almost touching the floor, and muscles painfully strained under his clothes. When he hears the word, though, his arms shoot behind his back and he grips on them with enough force that his skin turns white. The perfect image of submission. Tony feels sick to his stomach—it’s like being in one of the Winter Soldier’s “maintenance” recordings.

Steve starts approaching him, slowly but steadily, until he stops in his tracks. He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. Tony shifts his gaze to Barnes, wanting to know what has Steve reacting in such a manner. He feels his heart being squeezed inside his chest. Barnes has started violently trembling, all his body being shaken by the shivers. Still, he doesn’t make any attempt to escape, to fight back whatever has him so scared. He stays curled into himself.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve,” he says, tentative, kneeling down when there are only some feet left between them.

Tony gives a step in their direction. He wants to tell Steve to be careful; that guy in front of him isn’t his “Bucky”—it’s not the Winter Soldier either, but it’s not 100% Barnes. His expression isn’t the one of a sane man. He stays silent, though, knowing full well that Steve won’t leave Barnes, not now. It hurts Tony’s muscles to keep them so rigid, ready for anything, but he can’t help it.

“Buck, look at me. Baby, look at me, please.” Steve sounds like he’s just about to start crying but is trying to hang on the thread that’s keeping him from falling to pieces. (Tony spares a fleeting thought to the fact that after that endearment the nature of their relationship must already be obvious to everyone in the room.)

Barnes, aside from the quaking, doesn’t change his stance. “Please,” Steve’s wrecked voice begs. After a long minute, Steve gives up and just crawls until he’s in front of Barnes, causing the man to give a little flinch. Steve’s face falls, horrified at the idea of his friend being _scared_ of him. “I’m going to touch you, okay? I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Again, no answer is given.

Steve fits gentle palms to Barnes’ cheeks, lifting his face so he can look closely at him. Barnes doesn’t meet his eyes but doesn’t resist either. Tony is preoccupied that the shivers are getting worse.

“You’re in the Avengers Compound, Bucky,” Tony says in a low voice, opting for the nickname instead. Barnes doesn’t give any indication to have understood or heard his words. His hands are still gripping into his own forearms; Tony can already see bruises forming under his fingers.

“You’re safe, Bucky.” Steve is running his thumbs over Barnes’ cheekbones and Tony can recognize the face of someone desperate and with no idea what to do next. “I told you I would keep you safe.”

“Steve?” Barnes finally says, voice slurred and fractured, eyes blinking like he’s just woken up from a deep trance, and a marked frown marring his features. The shaking doesn’t cease, though.

Tony feels his muscles uncoil a bit and a little sigh makes its way out of his lungs. He takes advantage of the moment and turns his head enough to take stock of the room. Everyone else looks a little relieved but are still attentive and careful. Mantis, the poor girl, is in Drax’s arms.

“Can we go now?” she asks with a little voice that breaks Tony’s heart even more; he wonders if she’s talking about the room or the planet itself. He has to look away from her tear-stained face but the scene before him isn’t any happier.

“Yeah. Yeah, Buck, baby, it’s me,” Steve answers with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, more scared than relieved. His hands look like the only thing supporting Barnes’ head upright. His jaw is loose and keeping his eyes open appears to be a challenge, even though he’s doing his best to stay focused.

“Stevie?” He doesn’t look that much present yet. Steve only nods his head, unable to speak in the face of Barnes’ broken voice.

Steve, having enhanced senses, moves away from Barnes (not withdrawing his touch in any moment, though) just in time when the man starts retching.

Tony can’t stop looking at the two men. Barnes is such a mess that Tony’s own heart aches fiercely just by watching. The man is on his knees, rocking back and forth even when Steve is behind him, his arms around him—probably the only thing providing support since his body doesn’t seem to be able to hold itself upright. Steve gets Barnes’ hair out of his face when the bile makes its way out of his esophagus, the motion so violent it makes his whole body convulse. Barnes is chanting something under his breath but Tony can’t make it out. Steve is saying something back in a hurried tone, lips pressed to his ear.

For some reason, Tony notices that Barnes is still wearing Steve’s pajama pants and _that_ , somehow, makes everything so more tragic. How… how is it possible for this man to look this vulnerable and small? How is possible for such a man, a person who’s been called _the fist of HYDRA_ , to look this helpless and lost.

The moment Bucky’s stomach stops emptying itself, Steve drags the two of them away from the mess, holding the man protectively against his chest.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s voice rasps, echoing in the silent room and reaching every corner. His chest is heaving with effort, breath rattling in his chest.

“Yes, Bucky, I’m here. I’m right here.”

“D-don’t let them take me again. _Please_. P-please, Steve, don’t let them have me,” he sobs the words out like they are bile that he hasn't been able to cleanse himself of until this moment. There is no mistaking who he’s talking about.

Steve turns Bucky’s body and guides his face to the side of his neck. He gratefully stays in that position, curled against Steve’s chest like he’s trying to climb inside him; simultaneously, Steve is virtually trying to cover him with his own body. He whispers something against his ear and Bucky only nods, shoulders shaking, the back of his head lovingly cradled by Steve’s hand.

“What did you do to him?” Steve spits the question, voice full of venom even when he tries to control his tone—it’s so different from the one he’s been using to speak to Bucky that it gives Tony whiplash. Bucky’s body flinches and Steve rubs his back with one hand and pressing the other to the back of his nape, apologizing repeatedly for scaring him.

“I’m sorry.” Tony isn’t expecting it, not if you take into account that Mantis herself isn’t doing that great, but the girl makes her trembling voice carry through the room. She sniffs and tries to explain. “I made it backfire. I got scared and-and…” She can’t finish and, without waiting to be dismissed, Drax scoops her into his arms and exits the room followed by Rocket, who Tony didn’t even know was in the room. Groot, on the other hand, doesn’t follow them, his eyes on Steve and Bucky; he looks torn between following his friends and going to the other two men.

A hand on his arm makes Tony startle. Quill rubs his arm as an apology. “I’m going to see how Mantis is doing.” He gives him an apologetic smile followed by a one-armed hug and a kiss to the cheek. Tony can only nod, still reeling. His legs are trembling and aching, no way to support him when the adrenaline rush is over.

Gamora slips an arm around him just in time and Tony gets his own over her shoulders.

“This is my fault,” she says and it sounds like something no one is meant to hear. The words stun Tony. He blinks at her.

Tony glances in Steve’s direction, wanting to make sure he hasn’t overheard. He’s holding the other man against his chest like he’s scared that Bucky is going to be snatched away from him. Bucky is holding onto Steve with a death grip. The metal hand must be hurting him but Steve doesn’t seem to notice. The same way he doesn’t seem to notice the tears clouding his eyes. His eyes are distant and unseeing while he rocks Bucky in his arms.

“Don’t tell him,” Tony instructs in a low tone to Gamora. She looks at him with shocked eyes. “Not now, I mean. I don’t… don’t think it will be healthy.”

Gamora looks at the two men, assessing, and then nods.

Tony, with her help, sits on a chair to catch his breath and think what to do next. “Fry, how are Peter and May doing?” Tony asks under his breath, sure that the A.I. will catch his words.

“They’re still walking around the grounds,” she answers in a low volume. Tony nods; lips folded in and chin to his chest. He rests his arms on his knees, his brain taking advantage of the silence to catch up with the events. He blows out a breath. “I told Dum-E to stay in the lab with the inventions. Was that okay, boss?”

“Yes. Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

Sam is making his way to Steve and Bucky, full of caution. The action makes Tony’s muscles to tense up with anticipation. Sam crouches and touches Steve with a gentle gesture, enough to make Steve jump and turn a deathly glare toward him. His face relaxes only slightly when he recognizes Sam’s friendly face.

“Why don’t you two go to the couch?” Sam suggests, rubbing Steve’s tense arm. Steve eyes the piece of furniture with distrusts. In the end, he gives a tight nod and whispers something to Bucky who doesn’t move or acknowledge whatever has been said to him. Sam and Steve help him up, each one with one of Bucky’s arms around their shoulders. Bucky’s face stays turned to the floor, strands of hair obscuring his face. It seems he’s trying to walk on his own but is miserably failing and has to be dragged by the other two men.

Tony gets to his feet without Gamora’s help this time and follows them at a safe distance. Gamora remains seated on her own chair and watching the scene, too, though she looks deep in thought. Steve and Sam try to lower Bucky to the cushions as gently as possible but it appears that Bucky is a dead weight right now. Clint and Natasha are present, too, and Vision has been for the last ten minutes or so—Tony can’t be sure. They, just as Tony, must be dying to do something useful, something to help, but have no idea _what_.

Now that they’re on the sectional couch, Bucky looks a little bit less… distressed? Scared to death? What is even the right word for such a horrifying reaction? And, either way, it’s probably only wishful thinking on Tony’s part. 

Sam comes back after a moment with a blanket that he drapes over the two men. Steve is too focused on covering Bucky to thank him. After a moment, Steve thinks better of it and rearranges their bodies so they’re stretched out along the larger part of the couch, and then wraps himself and Bucky in the soft blanket. He seems unaware of the people still in the room, his only task to protect his friend from the rest of the world.

Clint and Natasha share a look and even she appears unsure of what to do. Natasha parts her lips, eyes on the trembling blanket, but immediately closes her mouth shut.

“Steve,” Sam is who takes the initiative even when he shows himself apprehensive, a careful touch on Steve’s arm to draw his attention. He turns his head just an inch in his direction, back turned to the room. “You need anything?”

“Just… just give us a moment. Please.” Sam nods, and after a final glance at the two people tangled into each other—a mess of limbs—, he straightens up and signals for Natasha and Clint to follow him.

Tony had, at some point, wondered how Princess Shuri had managed to solve the problem Bucky was having with his damaged brain, how had she cured it so thoroughly to make him the stable one of the rogue Avengers. Now, he thinks that maybe it’s not so much being healed as it is keeping it together in front of everyone else. Tony knows a thing or two about that.

“We should leave them alone,” Gamora suggests by his side.

With his own final look, Tony tears his eyes away from the heartbreaking scene, his final thought being of how wondrous it is that such unadulterated gentleness, such pure sweetness can still have a place inside the borders of their world. Perhaps that’s something that should give him some hope but it just makes his heart feel heavier, full of stones.

“If you need anything, just talk to F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she will inform me. Okay, Steve?” Steve only gives him an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Tony will take it.

They exit the living room, Steve’s tender words of comfort fading with every next step. Gamora’s hand slips into his and squeezes, the gesture making his eyes well up with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh you thought the pain was over? From the very start I knew I had to include a scene of Mantis touching Bucky. I just have to rip my own heart (and yours) out. (I was going to add as a Summary “Get your favorite sad music ready” but wanted the suffering to be a surprise hehe)
> 
> Vent: One thing I really HATE from GotG Vol 2 is how they treat Mantis. She’s an orphan who only knows whatever Ego wanted her to learn and she’s spent her life being his servant and EVEN after all that she made the right decision and told the Guardians about what Ego had been doing. And how did the movie treat her? They abused her just for laughs. I’m glad things changed in IW because it pains me to watch Mantis in her first movie.
> 
> So I just found out thanks to some Infinity War concept art that Tony’s arc reactor in the movie is _actually_ embedded in his chest, too ??? Am I the only one who didn’t know this??? And then, obviously, the first thing I thought was “fuck but in my fic Tony doesn’t have the new arc reactor in his chest!” BUT don’t worry because this is just a year after CW and he hasn’t even created the reactor, the “housing unit for nanoparticles”, which is already mentioned in Chapter 16 yay.
> 
> Oook. Not sure if it’s necessary to explain what MKUltra is but here goes the Wiki article just in case: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_MKUltra 
> 
> As a final note: The next chapter is almost finished, I think. I was actually going to add it with this one but it got out of hand and I’m evil. Sooo… I think this will be 20 chapters and not 19 heh


	19. Chapter 19

Bucky’s body has stopped shivering, only a chill running down his spine every now and then. It’s not something that has abated Steve’s concern and anxiety. In reality, Steve doesn’t know what is worse, the way Bucky’s body had felt about to fall to pieces, or the unnatural silence he has sunken into, eyes open but unseeing and limbs not offering any strength of their own, leaving his body lax.

Steve has Bucky firmly pressed against the back of the couch, his own body serving as another barrier and the only thing supporting Bucky on his side. He can’t stop touching Bucky, hoping that the proximity will bring him back somehow. He kisses his hair and caresses his face, a warm hand even slipping under his shirt so the skin-to-skin contact will be more direct. But Bucky doesn’t react. Steve is scared stiff of Bucky not coming back, of getting stuck in this state.

“Bucky.” He has repeated his name so many times without getting any response that he should have already lost any hope that’s left. But Steve is the man who slept in ice for 70 years and then woke up in the future, and Bucky is the man who survived not only a fall from a ravine but HYDRA itself for decades. Steve is never losing hope in his friend.

He closes his eyes, wiggling a little bit closer to Bucky. He buries his nose in his hair an inhales, tears rolling into the locks. “I’m here, my love.” His breath hitches. “I will be here when you come back.”

Steve is considering calling Princess Shuri and asking her if she knows what to do, how Steve can help. But he rejects the idea almost immediately. He knows Princess Shuri will gladly help him but Steve doesn’t want to involve her in any of this, sure that she has a lot of responsibilities of her own. And Bucky wouldn’t approve him choosing that course of action either.

“I’m waiting for you. I’ve got you, Buck.” Steve sniffs. “When all this is over… God, I—We’ll travel. We will go to France without there needing to be a war. We will go to Italy, to Greece, we’ll see the Balkans…” he trails off, imagining for a moment everything the two of them will have the opportunity to do and see. “We don’t even have to go that far away, we can travel through the states.”

Steve lasts in the same position for some good twenty minutes, mind totally lost in past memories and future possibilities, his hands lost in Bucky’s skin, rubbing up and down arms, sides, back... It doesn’t matter as long as he can feel him. When he looks down at his friend’s face, Bucky’s eyes have shifted, the spacey look from before now turned into something more attentive. “Hey,” Steve’s voice trembles.

Bucky doesn’t answer but his odd expression of wonder doesn’t change, his huge eyes fixed on Steve. He stares into them, grey and pale and boring into his soul. Steve finds himself unable to come up with words for a moment.

“Do you know where you are?” Bucky doesn’t do more than blink once. Steve will take that over the eerie and complete stillness of minutes before. “Bucky, I need you to answer me.” Steve slips a lock behind his ear. “I need to make sure you’re okay.” ‘Okay’ is stretching it.

Bucky’s brow pinches in a small frown and the icicle that embedded itself into Steve’s heart hours ago is now showing signs of melting. But the utter terror he had felt when Bucky crashed to the floor and didn’t get off his knees, the way he had gripped into his arms, scared of being punished if doing something wrong… that feeling is going to stay with Steve until his dying day.

Finally, Bucky gives a little shake of his head. After a second, his face scrunching like it hurts to move. “You don’t know where you are?” Bucky needs a moment but he shakes his head again. A whimper escapes his lips and he screws his eyes shut. “Okay, it’s okay. Just blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no,’ understand?” Bucky opens his eyes, keeps them open for two seconds, and then blinks once. Steve feels something like a smile curving his lips.

“You’re in the Avengers Compound. You know where that is?” Bucky’s forehead creases with concentration, eyes turning distant. He blinks once, eyes not leaving Steve’s when they settle back on him.

“Good. That’s really good, sweetheart.” The look of complete shock on Bucky’s face has the power to both warm and pierce Steve’s heart. He closes his eyes and kisses Bucky’s brow, wanting to make the deep frown that’s made its way to his forehead disappear. “My sweetheart,” he whispers and finds his words rewarded with Bucky’s metal hand slithering from between their bodies and wrapping around Steve’s middle, Bucky’s chest flush against his own and brow touching Steve’s. He starts rubbing circles on Steve’s back, as though _he’s_ the one trying to comfort Steve.

Steve didn’t know that just a sweet word could do that much to calm Bucky down. He didn’t know that Bucky has wanted these expressions of affection from him. All the affection he’s been wanting from Steve but hasn’t asked for and probably has stopped expecting to receive. Of course; Bucky wouldn’t complain about such frivolous wants (Steve is pretty sure that’s how Bucky sees it.) What other things has he been in need of from Steve and Steve hasn’t given him just because of his own hang-ups? Just because Steve has been too scared to show any hint of emotion? Right now, it seems so stupid and useless, all this time he’s spent keeping his feelings bottled, hidden from everyone he cares about and who cares about him.

“You’re safe now, you know that, right?” He moves just an inch back so he can see Bucky’s face. He doesn’t fully open his eyelids, grey eyes peering through black lashes. Bucky blinks once. “You tired?” Another blink and Bucky burrows his face into the pillow, the image so endearing to Steve that he can’t help brushing his fingers along Bucky’s face. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch, my love,” he forces the words out. Bucky opens red eyes, a dazed look taking over his features, but then they drift closed.

It’s still difficult to utter the word and Steve hates it. He _wants_ to say this kind of words, wants to make Bucky feel loved, cherished. Steve feels this ball of emotions in his stomach all the time, this warm and electrifying and scary and huge thing that he wants to share with Bucky, with his friends, with whoever is near to listen, but he’s still scared, he still feels like a fool for even thinking about it.

Steve holds him, feeling tired and spent but unable to close his eyes. He thinks about their past, about what there will be in their future, but can’t really concentrate; Bucky’s slack features too much of a distraction. Steve runs his fingers over his brow, descending along the bridge of his nose until he reaches his Cupid’s bow, Bucky’s beard tickling his fingers. Bucky twists his lips with a soft grunt at the back of his throat and Steve gives the corner of his mouth a chaste kiss. He chuckles when Bucky tries to looks affronted but fails.

“Keep it in your pants, Rogers.” Steve stares at him in disbelief, heart fluttering in his chest and mind unable to process how Bucky has the strength to say an entire sentence. His words are slurred and gruff, but still real.

Steve has a comeback at the tip of his tongue when someone clears their throat behind him. Bucky’s eyes fly open, an emotion that borders on panic settling over his face. Bucky stares at Steve as if he’s waiting to be told what to do. His metal arm is already slipping away from his waist when Steve draws away from Bucky and gets on his back to face the newcomer. His attention is pulled back to Bucky when he catches him trying to get up. Steve’s left arm, which is still under his friend with his palm on the man’s back, just gives a little push and Bucky topples on Steve’s chest with a surprised gasp.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bucky looks at him with wide eyes and then chances a quick glance in Gamora’s direction as if he thinks Steve hasn’t already noticed her presence. “I don’t care,” he assures him softly. “Stay.”

Bucky, with a frown still present between his eyebrows, settles back on the couch, Steve’s arm dragging him to his chest. Steve’s face is already burning and his throat is dry but it’s worth it when Bucky melts against him, his metal hand still under the blanket lying over his heart and probably able to feel his pulse.

This is ridiculous; here he is, longing on the couch, while Gamora is entering the living room. Maybe it can be interpreted as offensive but he’s determined on not disturbing Bucky, not after what he was a witness of only an hour ago. Steve doesn’t even understand what exactly happened but he knows Bucky deserves for Steve to be more thoughtful with him.

Bucky huffs against his chest. “Jesus. Get up, you slugabed. Sorry, ma’am, he has no manners.” Bucky is sitting up even when the three of them are aware of how his muscles are straining and trembling under the slight exertion the movements require. He sits with a grunt, his arms on his knees and his breathing uneven; all of this, he tries to mask with a charming smile.

“Gamora,” Steve greets her. She returns the smile but there is something in the lines of her eyes that makes Steve move faster when he settles by Bucky’s side.

When she’s about to say something, Bucky speaks up. “I’m sorry, but I should first go to the bathroom,” he apologizes with a polite smile. She nods. “Steve?”

“What? Oh, right. Lemme help you.” With an arm around him, Steve helps Bucky up and the two of them make their slow way to the nearest bathroom. Bucky tells him to go to the one in their room but Steve assures him there are unopened toothbrushes in this one, too. Bucky is so drained of all energy that he has to make stops while brushing his teeth just to rest. Steve stays by his side during all the process, one arm around Bucky’s middle even when he gives him an eye-roll. Still, Bucky is leaning almost all his weight against him.

“Okay, let’s go back,” Bucky instructs after he washes his face with cold water (he’s also tried to untangle his hair but to no avail.) Steve winces at his hoarse voice.

Bucky tries to walk faster but Steve stops every time, giving Bucky a disapproving frown, his friend answering with one of his own. When they finally sit on their respective places on the couch, Gamora doesn’t tiptoe around and just says, “I wanted to talk with you, Barnes.”

“Please, I prefer Bucky,” he’s quick to say. Gamora nods in understanding. The woman walks to the couch in front of the one they’re settled on and sits parallel to them.

Steve, mindful of his friend’s shivering limbs, picks up the blanket and puts it around Bucky, squeezing him when he’s burrowed in. Bucky, apparently still disconcerted by Steve’s sudden change in conduct regarding their relationship and how they behave in front of other people, stares at him with slightly parted lips. He shakes his head and directs his attention to Gamora again.

“Everything all right?” Steve feels him freeze under the blanket, face draining of any color. “Did I hurt someone?”

“No!” Steve hurries to say. “No, no, Buck, you didn’t hurt anybody.” He gets his arm around him, drawing Bucky closer and clutching him tightly.

“I-I thought… I thought it was over. Shuri, she…” Bucky, with his eyes trained in his clenched fists, doesn’t finish the sentence. Steve wants to tell him it wasn’t his fault but he has no idea what exactly happened with Mantis. Yes, Gamora explained that she can alter emotions but why would she deliberately hurt Bucky? He looks at Gamora, praying for her to have an answer.

“It wasn’t your fault, Bucky.” Steve feels himself sag forward but rapidly picks himself up. Bucky is looking at her with a skeptical expression. “It wasn’t Mantis’ either,” she clarifies, this time looking at Steve, probably thinking about his previous outburst directed at her. Steve feels his cheek heat up with shame and gives her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“I understand where you were coming from.” A short pause immediately followed by, “And I think you should say that to her.” There’s no judgment in her voice.

“I know and I will,” Steve states, his back a bit stiffer. Gamora nods and her eyes drift to the floor. She gives herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “It was actually my fault.” Before either of them can react, she continues. “After what happened between Tony and you and Barton, and the way Tony started behaving since the moment you arrived, we weren’t sure what to think of your group.”

Gamora’s voice is firm, her back straight and her eyes not straying from Steve. He nods his understanding, his lips forming a tight line. Of course he understands. There’s a part of him that wants to smile; these people have really come to care about Tony in just some days.

“So I asked Mantis to touch some of you and get a feeling of your intentions. Her powers don’t give her the ability to read minds; you don’t have to worry about that. And yes, I know it was wrong but there wasn’t much more we could do and we wanted to know Tony was safe with you.”

“I understand, Gamora,” Steve hurries to say, his voice full of emotions he doesn’t know how to adequately communicate. “And I’m really glad you—all of your team is here.” Gamora’s brows lift a bit. “Tony, he…” Steve huffs out a breath, his arm unconsciously tightening around Bucky, seeking support. Bucky too is looking at him, waiting for him to continue. “He doesn’t admit it but he needs people, he needs a family. The Avengers were a family to him and all of us screwed that up. I didn’t see it on time, how he always took care of everyone...”

Steve trails of, reminiscing about the times Tony got out of his way to make someone tea, to ask them if they were doing okay even when he himself was being dragged to medical, about all the stuff he made for the team when it meant sleepless nights. It was always such a Tony thing that neither one of them stopped for a moment to think _shit, no sane person would just do this out of the goodness of their heart._

“But I feel like you people saw that almost immediately,” Steve says in the end.

“Tony is…” She trails off. It seems Gamora doesn’t have a suitable word for whatever she wants to express.

“Yes, he is,” Steve says with a smirk. Gamora smiles back at him and some understanding crosses between them. “And Tony likes you a lot, too. All of you. Pretty sure he’s already making weapons and suites for every one of you.”

Gamora huffs out a laugh, and silence falls over them.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, that my choice of actions ended up hurting you,” she apologizes after a minute, her voice full of remorse and tight lines appearing around her eyes and lips.

Bucky nods his head several times, his eyes red and irritated but he looks more relaxed. “I accept your apologies. But…” He closes his lips. Steve rubs his back, wanting to encourage him to go one. Bucky smirks at him, aware of what he’s doing. “But what happened, exactly? I mean, I can’t remember everything and what I felt…” There’s mist settling over his eyes, turning them distant. Bucky’s brows pinch, his lips moving like he’s trying to form sounds. Steve has to shake him a little bit to bring him back.

“Oh, yes, that. I’m sorry, I forgot that part.” Her skin is green but Steve can still recognize a blush appearing across it. “Mantis can manipulate emotions to some degree.” Gamora must have noticed just as Steve the shiver that runs over Bucky. She observes him with thoughtful eyes but doesn’t press the issue. “I talked with her and she told me…” She cuts off her own words and the vacillation takes Steve by surprise.

“Look, Bucky, I’m sorry.” Bucky uncurls a little bit, the words making a clear expression of confusion settle over his face. “Mantis herself wanted to come and apologizes but she’s still too shaken up.”

Even if it has been explained to him that it was not his fault, that there was not a single thing he did to hurt anybody, Bucky’s face still falls when he hears the words. Steve feels his stomach knot but decides that his nerves aren’t important enough and kisses his temple. “Don’t do that,” he whispers in his ear.

“I hurt her. I hurt Mantis,” Bucky says almost in a whisper, eyes lost. Steve chances a look at Gamora and urges her to go on.

“We decided that either way, someone should explain to you what happened.” She makes another pause, searching Bucky’s face for something. When she apparently finds whatever it was, she continues. “Mantis said…” She glances at Steve with an uncertain expression and then her gaze lands on Bucky again.

“It’s okay, you can say it in front of him, whatever it is,” Bucky assures her.

“Mantis said that when she touched you she felt pain,” she concludes without beating around the bush anymore. “She clarified that it wasn’t _just feelings_ , like with most people—there was a lot of emphasis in that. Said those can be intense and overwhelming as well, but with you… it felt physical.” She’s looking intently at Bucky. Steve thinks that perhaps she wants an answer to the mystery, too. Like she already knows the answer but wants to hear it voiced.

He gives a nod. Bucky is looking at his own feet, wringing his hands. “When she pushed me…”

“She made it backfire,” Gamora fills in with a soft voice. “Mantis says that she got scared and confused and that was the only thing she could do at the time.”

Another silent nod. “Does she want to know what she felt?” Bucky’s voice is too serene and controlled and it makes a chill run up Steve’s spin. Steve has the feeling that Gamora’s words have made Bucky fully understand whatever happened when Mantis altered his mind.

“No.”

“Smart.”

Silent stretches between them, Bucky’s gaze lost on the floor, Steve’s lost on him, and Gamora observing Bucky, pensive.

“Thanks for telling me, Gamora,” Bucky breaks the silence.

“You deserved an explanation.” She gets up from her seat and with a final goodbye, exits the room.

Bucky lays against the back of the couch and sets free a deep sigh, distractedly massaging his shoulder. “What?” he says when Steve stares at him for far too long.

“Nothing. Just like looking at you, _sugar_.” Bucky needs a moment but he eventually smiles, ducking his head like he wants to hide it.

“Shut up.”

“What is it, _love_? You don’t like me looking at you?” Steve teases with a grin full of relief and joy. Suddenly, being aware that they’re alone and that Bucky is safe, Steve feels giddy, full of an energy that makes his body vibrate.

Bucky plants a hand on Steve’s face and pushes it away from him with a grunt. “Oh, come on.” Steve scoots closer, his arms reaching out for Bucky. “Come 'ere, _boo_.”

“Ugh, get away,” Bucky huffs but Steve isn’t fooled, not when Bucky’s smile is as big as his own. Bucky tries to push him away when Steve wraps his arms around him and tries to do the same with his legs, laughing when Bucky kicks them away. He nuzzles at his neck when he gets the chance.

“Yeah, Steve, please stop.”

Steve jumps away from Bucky like he’s been burned, his heart stuck in his throat. He doesn’t feel much relief when he sees it’s only Sam that’s arrived. He can feel Bucky’s betrayed and hurt eyes on him.

“Watching you two grampas necking gives me the heebie-jeebies. That’s how you say it, right?” Sam teases with a playful smirk. It’s still not enough to ease Steve’s nerves but he tries to give a smile of his own.

“Hey, Sam.” Bucky doesn’t follow suit; he’s dragging his body to the other end of the couch, burrowing against the arm.

“What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, Bucky, I know you’re glad to see me,” Sam answers without missing a beat, Steve not deaf to the name he’s decided to use in this occasion. Sam is a godsend. “I’m actually going to make you two some tea and sandwiches because I’m good like that.” Sam is _too_ good and this world definitely doesn’t deserve him.

Bucky lifts his head at this, eyes a bit wider.

“You don’t have to,” Steve counters and is immediately fulminated by Bucky’s glare.

“Yeah, Sam, just give me Steve’s part,” Bucky grumbles, massaging his temples. Steve feels like shit but doesn’t know if his affections will be accepted now.

Sam looks at Steve over Bucky’s head, arching an eyebrow. “You two okay? Did I just interrupt your lovers’ quarrel?” He doesn’t appear to be really concerned before the possibility.

“No…” Steve says, his voice clearly showing uncertainty. “It’s just…” Bucky is avoiding his eyes and the worst part is that he doesn’t even look angry anymore, mostly embarrassed.

Sam has already made his way to the kitchen area, opening cupboards and getting out the needed utensils and ingredients. “This may take some time given your freaky metabolisms. Probably going to spend all day here.” Sam sends him a pointed look.

“I’m sorry, Buck. Just give me some time.”

“Forget it, Stevie, it’s nothing.” And he’s really trying to sound like he doesn’t care, like Steve’s rejection didn’t hurt him. How must it feel to suddenly have taken away something that you have been longing for and that was given to you for such a short period of time?

“It’s not nothing.” Steve scoots until there are only inches separating their faces. Bucky stares at him in bewilderment, sure that he must be wrong; Sam is still here and Steve surely isn’t about to…

With his left arm to support himself on the back of the couch and the right to cup the back of Bucky’s neck, Steve leans over to press their lips together, moving them only when he feels Bucky sigh sweetly, melting Steve’s heart inside his chest. It’s immediate; Steve forgets about the other occupant of the room and his senses become completely immerse on Bucky, on the lips moving between his own and the gentle exhales that escape them and that travel through his whole body. He starts to feel dizzy; neither one of them pulling apart even an inch to catch their breaths.

Steve gasps against Bucky’s lips when he’s suddenly being wrapped by firm arms and manhandled to his back on the couch, Bucky covering him with his own body and not giving Steve a moment to process what’s happened when he’s already silencing him with hungry kisses. Steve’s brain registers a wolf whistle somewhere out of their bubble but their lips don’t stop moving against each other.

A whine escapes him when they finally separate, the two of them panting chest to chest. Steve’s eyes are just as bright and dazzled as Bucky’s. “What—” He needs another moment to recover his breath. “What was that for?”

Bucky grins down at Steve and gives him a sloppy kiss, his lips warm and wet, but doesn’t answer.

“If you wanted me to leave you could just have said it. _Jesus_. That’s going to scar me for life,” Sam informs them with a horrified voice. Though, when Steve looks in his direction, Sam is actually smiling at him and mouthing a “wow” with wide eyes.

“I’m glad,” Bucky deadpans, settling on Steve’s chest, his body sagging and limbs regaining some of their trembling. He rubs his cheek against his chest.

“I thought that in your times,” a new voice chimes in, “when you said that you were ‘sweet on someone’ you meant something cute and pure and not this… obscenity.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around Steve when Tony makes his way into the room, like he fears Steve will repeat his stunt from when Sam startled them. But Steve controls himself, and even if his skin itches when another person sees them like _this_ , he doesn’t let Bucky down this time.

“Tony. Hi,” he stammers and Tony gives him a knowing grin followed by a quick wink. He’s limping a bit and walking stiffly but there doesn’t seem to be any danger of him falling over. Also, it seems he’s taken a shower and changed his clothes.

This time, Bucky is the one who gets away from Steve. He offers Steve a hand to sit up and settles near him, their sides pressing together and his flesh hand resting on Steve’s knee. Bucky seems to have completely recovered but Steve knows better and recognizes the need for physical contact for what it truly is. Steve covers Bucky’s hand with his own and laces their fingers together. He has to make himself school his features into something less cheery.

“Oh you two are so adorable you break this old man’s heart,” Tony says with hands crossed over his chest. Steve can already feel his cheeks and the tips of his ears heating up.

“Like you are one to talk, Stark,” Sam chimes in from the kitchen, raising his voice to make himself heard. “We’ve already seen you with your new alien boyfriend and girlfriend,” Sam says with a shit eating grin.

Oh, that’s true. Steve feels relieved that it wasn’t his imagination. He looks back at Tony, curious to see what his reaction is going to be.

“What?” Tony blurts with an expression bordering on shocked. “What are you even talking about?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam answers with a snort, eyes on the condiments.

“You…” Tony struggles to give some witty answer but can’t find the inspiration. “Whatever,” he ends up grumbling, his face turning a shade of red. “Fry, send one of my Roombas to clean up here.”

“Oh. Uh… sorry about puking in your leaving room, Stark,” Bucky apologizes with an uncomfortable expression, tugging unconsciously at the hairs at the back of his head.

“Doesn’t matter, Bucky,” Tony answers, his eyes lost somewhere else like he’s still turning Sam’s words over in his mind or racking his brain for a rejoinder. Bucky’s head snaps in the engineer’s direction, sure that he must have heard wrong. He glances at Steve and then at Sam, finding the two men with the same expressions of surprise. It seems the three of them decide not to make a big deal out of it.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Steve asks Tony when the man sits on the other end of the couch facing the TV, the same he and Bucky are on.

“Why is everyone asking me that?” Tony groans when he lifts his legs and lowers them slowly to the cushions, an expression of concentration and pain twisting his features. He lets out a deep breath and leans against the back of the couch.

“Probably because you need to rest.”

“Jesus! Where did you come from, Romanoff?” Tony has a hand over his heart and is scowling at Natasha. He isn’t the only one who’s been startled by her unexpected appearance; there is the sound of something metallic falling to the floor and Sam’s voice can be heard letting out a string of curses.

Natasha on her part only graces them with a sweet smile and says, “The door.”

She goes to the kitchen, apparently joining Sam on his aim to make some lunch (or whatever meal since Steve can’t be bothered right now with what time it is); it looks like she’s going to be the one in charge of the scrambled eggs.

Steve catches Tony looking at her not so subtly over his shoulder and the man rapidly faces forward when he’s caught, Nat only directing a little smile in his direction.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to hog half of the couch and watch TV until I’m brain-dead; Pepper’s orders.”

“Pretty sure she didn’t use those words,” Steve says with a smirk. Tony scowls at him but doesn’t say anything, just makes himself comfy between the cushions and asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to put some cartoons on.

“By the way,” Natasha says from the kitchen, “Clint is gone.”

First, there’s the noise made by a pan being dropped in the sink and then Sam’s voice cursing once again. “You couldn’t have waited a second, could you?”

“I like ruffling your feathers.” Of course she looks proud of her own joke.

“Ha, ha.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Steve asks, already on his feet and about to stride to the kitchen area.

“Steve, don’t worry. Sit down.” He does but is still turned so he can face her. “He’s back to the farm. He doesn’t like goodbyes so he didn’t say anything to anyone else.” She eats a bit of scrambled egg. “And this isn’t a goodbye, actually; he said we can visit him at the farm.”

“He should have said something,” Steve grumbles. He still feels like he should be aware of what happens to the team. Maybe he should start getting used to the fact that he isn’t in charge of these people anymore. Even so, Clint should have told them something; if not as a teammate, as a friend.

Steve circles the couch and sits on the back, arms crossed in front of his chest and gaze switching between Natasha and Sam, and Bucky and Tony. Natasha is placing the last of the eggs in a bowl already full; Steve feels like that won’t be enough. As though she’s aware of his skepticism, Natasha looks at him and with a motion of her head, she draws his attention in Sam’s direction; Steve sees all the sandwiches and grilled cheese that are already covering the countertops. God, he’s _ravenous_.

Steve changes his attention to the two people at his back, trying to ignore all the food and the tea that is being brewed. He slips over the back of the couch and lands at Bucky’s right who seems a bit too quiet and still. When he chances a glance, Steve confirms his suspicions: Bucky is obviously feeling a tad uncomfortable. A look at his right makes it clear that Tony is too. Steve wants to break the ice but, as per usual, Tony beats him to it.

“Your upgrades and new toys are already in your rooms, kids. Some of them are brand new; some are old designs I never put to use.” Steve looks at him. Everyone is staring at Tony, probably not understanding what he’s babbling about. “Since Clint is gone, I guess I’ll have to mail him his new bows and arrows—will probably send one of the suits.”

“Tony, they don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve informs him, trying to hide his smile. He has missed this and wasn’t even aware of how much until now.

“Oh. Ah, right. I’ve made some upgrades to your old suits and weapons and made some new ones,” he explains, obviously not trying to give it additional importance, his eyes not straying from the TV screen.

“When did you make all that?” Sam asks.

“This last year.” Natasha is the one who answers and Steve can see the grimace her words make appear on Tony’s face.

“You… Wow.” Sam tries to say something else but doesn’t find the words.

The ambiance has turned heavy and tense, all of them aware of it and searching for something to say and defuse the situation—except Natasha, who is serving the tea, and probably Bucky, who doesn’t seem that more uncomfortable than a minute ago.

“So, uh, yeah. In your bedrooms.”

Tony is already trying to get out of his seat and Steve isn’t having any of it. “Sit down, Tony. Pepper’s orders.” And, miraculously, Tony doesn’t complain but does as he’s been instructed.

After a moment, Sam comes with a plate with a sandwich and a grilled cheese that he hands to Tony, followed by a tea mug. Tony looks up at Sam, round-eyed; to Steve it looks like, at first, Tony doesn’t understand what is going on. Eventually, he takes the offered food and drink and thanks Sam. Natasha is already eating and Steve goes to plate his own food, even when Sam sends a dirty look in his direction.

“Hey, what the hell?” Bucky exclaims. “Why are you giving me a burned piece of bread?” Steve is already turned around to see what is going on and that’s the only reason why he catches Tony snorting into his tea.

“Dude, you were puking just an hour ago,” Sam explains, not even looking into Bucky’s direction.

“I’m okay now, I can eat real food, too,” Bucky complains.

“I’m making rice, too.”

“This is bullshit,” Bucky grumbles, his voice still hoarse. He’s poking at the toast with a metal finger and refusing to eat it.

The change between the Bucky lying on the couch and the one in front of Steve is astonishing. Steve doesn’t want to see Bucky in that frame of mind ever again, behaving in such a _docile_ way. The perfect example of the phrase “beaten into submission.” Steve’s stomach turns just by thinking about it.

“Brat.” The word is said in a low voice but if Steve has heard him, Bucky must have too.

“What did you just say?” There it is.

“I said ‘BRAT diet,’” Sam replies. “Banana, rice, applesauce, toast.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eat your toast, Barnes.” Bucky whines. “If you can keep it down I’ll let you eat a sandwich.”

“Okay, mom.” Bucky starts with a sip of his tea.

“You really are a brat,” Natasha says between bites of scrambled eggs and toast. Bucky mutters something under his breath Steve doesn’t catch because he’s too concentrated on Sam leaning against a chair and letting out a laugh. Poor Tony, though; he must have heard Bucky’s comment because he snorts again into his tea, some of the drink getting on his sweater. “You okay, Tony?” He gives her a thumbs-up.

When everyone is eating, Steve finally fills a plate with a bit of everything and settles between Tony and Bucky, his thigh pressed flush to his best friend’s. Steve feels Bucky’s gaze on him and when he looks in his direction with a smile, Steve’s expression shifts into a scowl when he sees Bucky mouthing “gimme, gimme” and making grabby hands at his plate

“Eat your toast, Bucky.” Steve actually doesn’t want Bucky to irritate his stomach. His pout doesn’t work on Steve and Bucky resumes nibbling at his food.

The silence is soon interrupted by Nat and Sam starting a conversation of their own, but Steve is too comfortable on the couch to be bothered listening or even contributing to it. His gaze shifts and he catches the small and calm smile curving Tony’s lips. He isn’t engaging in the conversation either but Steve is positive he’s listening and probably enjoying just doing that. Steve places his plate on the coffee table when he notices Tony’s eyes drooping and picks his plate and mug and gets them to the sink, taking the opportunity to get himself another sandwich, knowing well enough that Bucky has probably inhaled by now the half that was left. Steve gets back to his spot and, yes, there are only crumbs left. He gives Bucky an unimpressed look.

“Um. Barnes?” Tony calls out, eyes still on the screen.

“Just Bucky is good.” This makes Tony look in his direction and give a nod, an almost-smile curving his lips.

“I was thinking… maybe you would like to see some of these guys’ equipment. You know, so you aren’t left out.” Tony is still trying to come across as cool and uncaring. Bucky takes a look at Steve, uncertain, and then back at Tony.

“No, I don’t think…”

“I get it, don’t worry.”

“No, no. I mean I would love to, believe me—”

“Yeah, believe him. He’s a total nerd,” Sam has to butt in.

“ _But_ ,” Bucky continues, scorn directed at Sam, “I don’t feel that good right now; wouldn’t be able to understand what I’m seeing.” Another look at Steve, like he’s waiting for him to give him some instruction about how to act toward Tony or what is the right thing to say. “But if it’s possible for you to show me some other time…”

“Yes!” Tony finally looks at Bucky, even though his face turns red at his own excitement. He clears his throat and passes a hand over his disheveled hair. “That would be okay. I myself aren’t feeling that great.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Bucky snaps his mouth shut, eyes going a tad wider and cheeks turning red. It’s okay because Tony snorts with a smirk—thankfully, this time there is no tea. “I mean, I feel like we all deserve a 12-hour nap.”

The room nods in agreement.

After a good half an hour of them watching TV in a companionable silence, they’re interrupted. 

“Mr. Stark.” Steve sees Tony jump in his seat and sits up straight, back going stiff and eyes wide open but not entirely focused; Steve has the impression that Tony was dozing off. He blinks and then tries to get to his feet. Steve is ready to get up to help him the moment he catches the fleeting pain passing over his face, but Tony manages by his own.

“Miss Parker,” Tony greets the woman with a tense smile. Peter is by her side, eyes trained on Tony just as Miss Parker’s. There’s a concerned look mirrored on both faces but Miss Parker’s is replaced by a stern and determined one.

“Mr. Stark, I need to speak with you. Pete, you stay here, okay?” After a kiss to his hair and a nod from the kid, the woman disappears into the hallway followed closely by an uncertain Tony who keeps stealing glances over his shoulder. It’s obvious that Tony wants to check on the kid first but isn’t about to contradict Miss Parker.

“Don’t start that nap without me!” Tony shouts over his shoulder before disappearing, too.

“Vision said that everything was covered and taken care of so May, please, let’s not have _the talk_ ,” Tony’s voice says even though the two of them are getting further away from the room. He doesn’t sound cocky or dismissive, just a bit exasperated and tired.

Steve feels awful for eavesdropping on their personal conversation but he can’t help but feel protective of Tony, especially when he’s hurt.

“This isn’t a phone, Mr. Stark, you can’t just—”

“You know about that?” There’s a tense silence after the interruption.

“You can’t just throw your money at us.”

“May—”

“We’re not your charity case, Mr. Stark.” There’s a bite to her words that makes Steve wince, but her words are mostly filled with exasperation.

There’s only silence, and Steve wonders if they are gone, but he hasn’t heard any retreating steps.

“May.” Tony pauses to take a controlled breath. “I think you already know how _much_ I care about Peter.” There’s only silence from Miss Parker’s part. “I love that kid and seeing him hurt and hurt _because of me_ it’s one of the worst things I’ve—” Steve’s stomach clenches when the man’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence. “The least I can do is pay for Peter to have his injuries treated.”

Steve is pulled back into the room and away from the conversation when the kid finally takes a tentative step into the leaving room. The dressed wounds of his arms are also covered by the long sleeves of his shirt (an Iron Man one, too. Has Tony sneaked Iron Man merchandise in everyone’s clothes? Is just now coming to Steve’s attention that Natasha is wearing Iron Man socks), but his wrapped hands are visible even if he tries to drag the sleeves over them.

“You hungry, kid?” it’s Bucky who asks. Peter only nods. Bucky doesn’t get up; instead, he gives Steve a look like he’s expecting him to do something. Steve frowns at Bucky’s arched brow. “My legs are like fuckin' jelly, Steven, have some decency.”

“Whoa, man, you gonna let him talk you like that?” Sam has to chip in.

“Shut up you two.” Steve gets up and gives Peter a smile and gestures for the kid to follow him to the kitchen. Sam and Bucky start to snicker annoyingly and Steve holds back a sigh. “What do you want?”

“The scrambled eggs are okay.” He’s eyeing the sandwiches so Steve makes sure to plate two. “Thanks,” Peter says when he realizes he’s been caught.

“Don’t mention it. How are your hands? You going to be okay?” Steve forgets to specify that he means if he will be able to eat but it’s for the better because he really wants to know how severe the injuries are.

“Yeah. It seems the burns are so deep they don’t hurt as much as one would logically expect. And…” Steve gives him some time until he feels like he can go on. “It seems that there is some nerve damage.”

Steve feels the bottom of his stomach drop, a sick feeling overtaking him. He catches movement at his right that makes him turn and there’s Bucky stalking to the kitchen. Steve doesn’t need more than the expression on his face to know that Bucky must have heard Peter’s words.

“Kid.” Bucky places a hand on Peter’s shoulder, visible to Steve that he’s unsure if the touch will be welcomed. Peter lifts his head and gives him a smile. “How are you doing?” he asks gently, eyes on Peter’s hands.

Peter lifts his hands and looks at them for a short moment until he says, “There’s some nerve damage but the doctor said that with surgery, and since I heal faster and more thoroughly than normal people…” He only shrugs.

“You’ll pull through,” Bucky assures and he sounds convinced. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder and goes for something that ends in an awkward one-armed hug that leaves Peter looking a fairly dazzled.

After that, the three of them settle on the couches (Steve and Bucky deliberately close to each other.) After Peter asks—after five minutes of gearing himself up, Steve notices—if anyone has preferences regarding the channel and everyone answers that they don’t care, he starts changing them and looking for something that holds his attention for more than two seconds.

“I’m getting the bug spray if you leave the Kardashians on,” Sam threatens. It’s obvious to everyone, even Peter, that it’s an empty threat. Peter smiles and changes the channel.

They’re watching a TV show from the '70s about a pink panther when Tony and Miss Parker come back. Everyone tries to act as if they don’t notice how the two of them have red eyes that look brighter than normal.

“Aunt May, are you okay?” Almost everyone. Peter approaches her; she smiles fondly and gives him a tight hug and a kiss to his forehead.

“Don’t worry, I’m okay.” But the sniffling gives her away. “I have to get going, Peter, but you have to stay under observation for some more days.”

“But… school, May,” he says miserably.

“You’re incredible, kid,” Tony says. He wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders, the kid leaning into the touch, and just like that it seems that an invisible weight lifts from Tony’s own shoulders. “You’re in the Avengers compound with the Avengers and a bunch of aliens, and you’re saying you would prefer to go to school?”

“No, of course not, but… homework.” Tony throws his head back and laughs, even Miss Parker let’s out a chuckle, looking at her nephew like he’s the sun.

“Just call Ned tomorrow and ask him. I’ll try to come back as soon as possible,” she finishes saying, stroking his hair and giving him a last hug and a kiss to the cheek before having to literally run out of the compound.

“Tell Happy we’ll go to the theater some other week!” Tony yells after her.

After the echo of his voice and Miss Parker’s footfalls dies down, Tony turns to Peter and wraps him in his arms, any pretenses gone and only relief remaining. The two of them seem to melt into the hug and Steve and the rest pretend to be immersed in the cartoon, giving them some sense of privacy. Everyone tries not to listen in on the words the two of them exchange, even if all of them are in the same room.

Eventually, Peter and Tony seat on the couch, the first one to eat and the last stretching out along the couch, sinking into the cushions with his eyes closed and sighing like everything is right in the world for once. For a moment.

Steve, forcing himself to ignore his insecurities and self-consciousness, scoots flush to Bucky and drops his head to his shoulder, his expectant palm on Bucky’s thigh. His friend doesn’t make him wait and links their fingers, squeezing tightly and bringing their hands to his chest, just holding them with a little, tranquil smile. The look suits him and that’s how he should always be. Steve is taken by surprise when Bucky kisses his fingers one by one.

“There are kids here,” Sam chides them even if what they’re doing couldn’t be more inoffensive. All the same, Steve’s face heats up and the flush travels down his neck. He doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand.

“What?” Peter looks around, clueless, searching for whatever he shouldn’t be seeing until he takes note of Steve and Bucky. His pupils widen with surprise and his eyes travel across the faces of the two men holding hands. Jesus, this is hard; Steve wants to flee the room.

“That’s… cool,” Peter finally says. His voice squawks and he has to clear his throat, embarrassed. “That definitely wasn’t in any of the _Rappin' With Cap_ videos.”

Even before Steve can groan in mortification or any of the others can laugh, Tony is bolting upright on the couch, like he wasn’t about to drop dead from tiredness five minutes ago.

“Come again? What did you just say?”

“Kid, don’t you dare.” Steve tries to infuse some of his Captain America tone in his voice but doesn’t work that well because Peter doesn’t look like he’s going to keep quiet for long.

“Fry, you caught that, right?”

“I did.”

Tony gives Steve a smug smile and just flops back down, rearranging the blanket around him. “There’s no escape.”

“You’re doomed, Steve,” Natasha says, still attentive to the cartoon and snickering when someone does something goofy.

“Great.”

Actually, everything is being great so far (at least in the last half a day or so) and Steve feels his eyes burning, a heavy gratitude in his chest. He decides not to overthink it or come up with ways how everything could come crashing around them. He relaxes against Bucky and allows himself to watch some silly cartoons, eyes dropping placidly.

“Mr. Barnes. Bucky,” Peter’s voice comes, making Steve aware that he’s been dozing off for some time now. He keeps his eyes closed. Bucky’s cheek is pressed to the top of his head and Steve is enjoying how Bucky’s flesh hand runs fingers through his hair—at some point, he must have entwined Steve’s fingers with his metal hand. “Do you really know Princess Shuri?”

“Yeah, she made me the new arm.” The smile in his voice is audible.

Just like that, cocooned by familiar voices, gentle touches, and a thick but dulcet silence outside of their bubble, Steve finally remembers what peace felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know what a sap I actually am until I started reading and writing fics :)))
> 
> (I missed Peter!!)
> 
> By the way, that person that wrote a comment and then deleted it: if you don’t like Steve or have some problem with my story, or if you’re just not enjoying yourself, you’re free to go; in the upper-right corner you have the X.  
> (I guess the 125th comment—even if deleted—being the first negative one isn’t so bad.)
> 
> There are 2 things I have to inform you guys about:
> 
> 1) The next chapter may include a surprise and I’m not telling you what it’s going to be, only that it kept me awake an entire night because I refused to get out of bed to take my laptop and start writing everything down.
> 
> 2) ONCE AGAIN I may have to add one more chapter than expected because I’m not sure if the original content of the chapter plus “the surprise” will be too long.
> 
> As a final note: feed me comments, I need them after I get out of work and before I go to bed and when I wake up!!  
> (Comments accepted even 30 years after this fic has been published. I’ll still be waiting to hear from you guys :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems the surprise decided to come first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes my mind thinks: “What if someone who knows me finds and reads this??” Because there’s no doubt they’ll know it’s me with everything I have written in the notes. Well… I can only hope they like it and don’t ever tell me they **_KNOW_**.

His heart is hammering as though trying to beat its way out of Steve’s chest. His respiration is heavy and rattling, reminding him of his long-healed asthma. His forehead, beaded with sweat, is creased like if he’s in deep concentration. Steve’s eyes screw shut and his lips part with a breathy groan when the length of Bucky’s cock finally slides inside of him, burying itself to the hilt. Bucky isn’t moving, only panting against Steve’s neck, muscles locked up in place. Still, Steve moans with something between pleasure and discomfort.

“You okay, Stevie?” The words come out slurred and it gives the impression that muttering them is presenting a bit of a challenge. Steve blinks in the dark bedroom.

Steve, with his legs wrapped around Bucky’s hips and hands clinging to his back, tries to speak but can only moan when Bucky thrusts an inch deeper inside of him. It feels so right; the two of them this close, sweaty skin stuck together and their breaths blending into one another. Their brains, in complete harmony, are unable to conceive a reality where this isn’t their life.

Steve finally finds his voice and mutters a small ‘yes’ followed by a nod. “Bucky, _move_ ,” he gives the husky order.

His hands lower to Bucky’s ass and squeeze. Bucky gives a throaty groan and bites at the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck, sucking hard and making the man below him squirm and whine. “ _B-Bucky._ ” He slips out of him and then thrust back in without giving Steve’s body a moment to process what is happening, burying his dick deep inside the tight walls, their skins slapping together. Steve shouts, startled, his eyes snapping wide open.

They haven’t even begun, not really, but the mere notion of the two being here, sharing this intimate moment, being given the opportunity to be together as it always must have been… it’s enough to have their minds swirling with euphoria. And, at the same time, neither one of them trusts that life will let them enjoy this moment. Who knows, maybe a killer-robot will crash their moment. They want to savor this, make it last, but there’s a frantic energy that has taken over them.

Bucky thrusts inside of him, kissing at the hollow of his Adam’s apple and then laps at the spot, making Steve groan and cant his hips just so, giving Bucky the opportunity to slide more smoothly. Bucky can’t think, not with how his dick is being squeezed by Steve’s burning walls, lovingly welcoming his cock inside of him every time he slides right in. He’s biting and lapping at Steve’s sweaty skin when he’s forced to lift his head and just look at his face, slack features and mouth hanging open while he moans with no restraint, the sounds making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest with an emotion that threatens to make him fall apart.

“Oh, _Stevie_.” His friend whines at the endearment, a stray tear rolling down the corner of his eye when Bucky caresses his smooth cheek and kisses him. His face is only a bit stubbled since he’s finally shaved his depression-beard, but he’s keeping his hair longer than normal. Bucky doesn’t have any complains, mainly because Steve loves it when Bucky cards his fingers through his locks.

With a punishing pace, Bucky pounds inside of Steve, feeling the body below his own start to tremble and, at the same time, push up to receive his thrusts. He knows this, the moment it starts being too much for Steve and he will fall silent, too concentrated in the sensation. Wanting to make it as good as possible, Bucky grabs Steve by a thigh and his back and hauls him right off the bed, propping him against the headboard, ass hanging in the air but with Bucky’s cock still inside of him. Steve’s eyes open, a mist covering them like he’s coming back from someplace far away. He stares at Bucky like he’s some kind of miracle taking place in front of him.

“Hold onto me, babydoll,” Bucky instructs; Steve’s arms still around his back but not showing any strength. “Stevie, get your arms around my neck, come on.”

It seems he finally snaps out of it and makes his arms move. He wraps one over Bucky’s shoulder and the other under his arm, gripping his muscles tight. He buries his face in Bucky’s neck, inhaling and then exhaling a pleased breath, like this is enough for him and wouldn’t have any problem if Bucky decided to just stop and hold him like this. He can’t believe the sweetness of this man; he loves him so much his heart is being scorched by the emotion.

Slowly, Bucky starts thrusting into Steve, holding him over his cock by his thighs, gripping with a bit too much force when Steve’s hole flutters around him, as if it wants him even deeper, forever like this.

“ _Aaah!_ ” Steve screams with his head hanging back when Bucky drops him directly onto his dick the same moment he thrust upwards. He keeps the torturing pace, fucking earnestly into him. The only sound in the bedroom is the slap of skin on skin and the noises their throats come up with. “B-Buck.” Bucky makes a questioning sound at the back of his throat that transitions into a growl that reverberates inside his chest. His hands go to Steve’s ass and parts his cheeks further so he can drive even deeper inside, the two of them screaming in unison. Steve keeps his legs firmly wrapped around Bucky’s waist even when they’re quivering. “Buck— _Oh God_ —Bucky, kiss me. Oh God please.”

Bucky doesn’t make him wait another second and gets his lips to Steve’s, first biting at his bottom lip, swollen and a cherry red, and then beating his tongue into his mouth, drinking the sweet sounds he lets out. Steve is licking into him while letting out the filthiest moans Bucky has ever heard coming out of him; it’s enough to make his hips snap even harder and faster against his ass, promising bruises to bloom. Bucky groans at the image. At the same time, Steve is using the little energy he still has to fuck himself into Bucky’s dick, using knees and arms to move up and down at the same time as Bucky.

Bucky chances a look at the cock left unattended between their abdomens. It’s almost purple, that’s how close Steve is. He can’t stop looking at the beautiful member, fattened and with the thick vein along the length in full view. It’s bobbing between them, pre-come already smeared on the both of them. Shit, Bucky wants it inside of his mouth, inside of his ass, stretching him wide open and making him cry out in frustration and pleasure. They have time; they’ll make it happen.

Bucky knows he’s just as close as Steve, heat pooling at the bottom of his stomach and toes already curling. Pressing him more securely against the headboard and getting an arm under his ass for support, Bucky slips his metal hand between them. He only needs to wrap it around the rock-hard cock and Steve paralyzes, breath being punched out of him and leaving him wheezing for air. He buries his face against Bucky’s neck to muffle his moans, and even then his sweet sounds are too loud and desperate. Bucky feels the thick veins in his palm pulse, come slicking his hand and running down his wrist. Being able to pleasure Steve in both these ways makes Bucky exhilarated.

“ _Fuck_ , Steve, you feel _so good_.” Bucky pants against his neck and then bites down at the same moment he angles his hips a little differently and his cock starts stroking Steve’s prostate. His head bangs against the headboard when he howls, face scrunching up.

Steve has already lost any semblance of control over his body that was left, and Bucky is closely following, the scent of sweat and sex and Steve’s pliant body under his hands a heady mix for his senses.

“Imma… Buck, I…” He’s unable to form any coherent sentences, clinging to Bucky while he’s being deeply fucked.

His shouts are wrecked by now, what with his prostate being stimulated with every thrust and Bucky fucking his fist over his leaking dick. Jesus fuck, Bucky is so ready to come, muscles straining and an electrifying sensation at the back of his head traveling down his column.

“Bu…” He gasps, unable to finish. It sounds like he’s drowning.

Bucky brushes away the sweaty locks sticking to Steve’s face, and watches in adoration the slack face of his lover; Steve, due to some instinct, lifts a hand and tries to do the same with Bucky’s hair. God, but he can’t even keep his eyes open, why hasn’t he come already? Bucky covers his sweaty face with little kisses, unable to contain himself. Steve tries to reciprocate but can’t do more than kiss the corner of Bucky’s mouth and then lean his temple against Bucky’s cheek. He tries again to talk but is unable. He’s so far gone, Bucky feels sorry for him.

He thumbs at the slit, Steve’s cock never stopping its dripping. The covers under them are already soaking-wet because of it due to their sweat. Bucky knows Steve’s prostate has been massaged for a long time now, enough to reduce him to a crying mess, but he’s _still_ not coming and Bucky is actually beginning to get concerned; the overstimulation must be getting painful by now. And besides, his own orgasm is building up and he is about to grab the base of his cock to stop it from happening just yet.

Steve mumbles something in a small voice. “What was that, baby?” he makes his voice work; it comes out scratchy but he wants to know what Steve needs. 

“I… _A-ah, ah…_ Pl— _Oh, fff…_ ” Bucky slows down even though he’s doing his best to bring Steve to completion, to give him his well-deserved release. “Can I…? _Oh God,_ can I come, please? _Oh please, please, Bucky, I need to…!_ ” He gulps in lungful after lungful of air, lips trembling and eyes damp while he looks at Bucky with huge, desperate eyes while he bounces in Bucky’s arms.

Bucky freezes in place, mouth agape. Steve sobs, tears rolling down his face. “No, no, no, please,” he sobs and whines in protest, forehead pushing against Bucky’s shoulder.

 _All this time_ he’s been waiting for Bucky to _tell him_ he can let go? Bucky’s mind can’t even—He’s been—Oh, God, his poor Stevie.

“Stevie, _come_ ,” Bucky breathes out, his heart filled with awe and adoration. Steve’s whole body shivers in his arms and Bucky holds him tighter, their heaving chests pulled together. “Babydoll, c-come for me, I-I wanna watch you come.” Steve makes a sound at the back of his throat that Bucky interprets as pure bliss.

He takes it slower this time, still rubbing Steve’s prostate every time he moves, and fisting his cock with his metal arm. His own dick is painfully hard but this time he doesn’t have to hold his orgasm at bay and can just surrender to it. He only needs Steve to fall over the edge, at last, and he follows close behind him. His come fills Steve to the bream while the two moan shamelessly, exchanging open-mouthed kisses. Spurts of come paint their chests and even a bit of Steve’s chin—Bucky just licks his skin clean. With each thrust, Bucky can feel come spilling from Steve’s abused and full hole and rolling down his thighs— _oh Lord_ , he thinks, _finally_. He wishes he could see the way Steve’s hole is spasming around him, milking his burning cock while he rides his orgasm.

The climax makes his head spin, his blood boil, makes his chest constrict… but Bucky can’t look away from Steve’s pretty face, his fair Irish skin covered in a bright blush and wet with sweat and tears. His mouth is slack and gasps are escaping his throat, eyes screwed shut while his head hangs back, unable to keep it upright—and even then, his arms don’t fall from around Bucky.

Bucky cups his nape and lifts his head so he can sweetly lick into his pliant mouth. He’s so beautiful, his Stevie is so painfully gorgeous… And he gets to have this. He’s the bastard lucky enough to be witness of this and the only one given consent to make Steve fall to pieces.

Bucky’s kept fucking into Steve for so long after they’ve climaxed that it starts feeling too much for the both of them, boarding on painful. Steve is miserably whining against his lips but Bucky’s hips don’t stop pumping, doesn’t stop biting and kissing his burning lips.

“B-Buck,” he stutters, a wince on his face but a moan slipping out his lips the instant Bucky starts playing with his foreskin, the cold of the metal too strong of a change. _“Uuh, auh! A-ah Buck!”_

“I know you have another one in you, doll,” Bucky whispers right into his ear with the sultriest voice the can muster. Steve has spent so long waiting for Bucky to give him permission to come, that Bucky wants to make the wait worthwhile.

Steve is shaking his head, the poor thing already sniffling into Bucky’s shoulder. “Stevie, baby boy, give me one more. I know you can, love.” Steve whines and Bucky turns to kiss his forehead. “Can you do it for me?”

There’s a frown scrunching his face but Steve nods, eventually. “God, you’re so perfect. You’re _so good_ , Stevie.” Bucky cups the back of his head and guides Steve’s face to that spot on his neck, the one he seems to love so much and find comfort in. He feels soft, spit-damp lips press there, making him shiver and his heart melt in his chest and cascade down his ribs.

This time, mindful of Steve’s comfort, Bucky moves him away from the wooden headboard and places him back against the pillows. Steve cries when Bucky’s cock slips out—more come spilling on the sheets—but he immediately returns to the welcoming heat of his lover. Steve hums with gratitude and his trembling hands fist into Bucky’s back and hair when the man starts thrusting into him, his walls hugging his cock lovingly and the bed creaking under their combined weight.

He was right; Steve does have one more orgasm in him and the two of them climax one last time after some shallow pumps, the two men too overstimulated to last any longer. Strings of white, hot come cover their already damp chests and Bucky suddenly finds himself lapping at Steve’s skin like a hungry dog. He feels spent, but there’s still this frenzied and uncontrolled drive inside of his bones that makes him lick and bite at Steve’s warm skin, sucking at his pert nipples and then at his pulse point, a bruise quickly adorning his neck and his beard scratching the soft skin. Steve, still so, _so far gone_ , finds it in himself to moan this little pitiful sounds, his fingers carding in long strands of damp hair.

“You’re so pretty like this, so pretty…” Bucky can’t explain what exactly happens but he buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and lets out a whimper, his body curling into the blonde’s chest.

Blinking his glossy eyes, Steve finally comes down from his high. Bucky is on top of his chest, shoulders shaking. He’s disoriented but instinct rapidly takes over and he hurries to wrap Bucky into his arms. “Shhh, it’s all right.” He turns so they’re lying comfortable on their sides, and then rocks Bucky a little bit, gently combing his fingers through Bucky’s long hair and rubbing his back. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“I know,” he sniffles but he’s voice still sounds wet. “I know. We’re okay.” Steve smiles at the change of pronoun.

“Yeah, we’re okay, Buck. We’re safe.”

They stay like that for some good ten minutes, basking into each other’s heat. He concentrates on the beating of Bucky’s heart, hammering right along his own. It crosses his mind the thought that they are trying to reach for each other. His lips curve in a sardonic smile. Yes, it’s sappy and it’s nearing purple prose, but that’s how he feels it.

Bucky isn’t trembling, exactly—actually, Steve is the one shaking, but he’s trying to suppress it, knowing that Bucky will probably start fussing. No, he’s not trembling, but his body doesn’t seem to be capable of doing anything more strenuous than hold onto Steve. That’s why Steve pulls away and says, “Stay here, Buck, while I take care of this, okay?” Bucky squints bleary eyes at him, apparently close to falling asleep, but he nods his head once and then drops it on the pillow.

Steve doesn’t really feel up to much so he takes a t-shirt off the floor and cleans himself up with it. He takes a different t-shirt and does the same with Bucky’s chest, cock, and thighs. He then throws it into the hamper. Next, he helps Bucky take the metal arm off (Bucky doesn’t do more than roll over so Steve can have better access to the openings) and returns it to its casing. The same as every other time, Steve kiss the shoulder and the scars covering his skin. Bucky almost starts to purr.

Before getting back to Bucky, Steve grabs a forgotten glass from the nightstand and goes to the bathroom. He fills it to the bream, empties it in three gulps and then fills it back again for Bucky, and leaves the glass on the same spot of the nightstand.

Steve is about to climb into bed when Bucky lets out an irritated sound. He flaps his hand on the bed. “Sheets,” he drawls, eyes still closed but a frown between his eyebrows. That alone is enough to make Steve understand that just one word is too much for Bucky.

“What was that, Buck?” Steve doesn’t want to make things more difficult for Bucky, but he really didn’t understand what he was trying to tell him. And, also, Bucky is too adorable like this for Steve to let pass the opportunity to rib him a little.

“The sheets,” he slurs the words and scrunches up his nose. Steve’s chest is threatening to burst open. “Dirty.”

“Oh.” Steve is thankful for Bucky’s closed eyes because neither would he miss the chance to tease Steve about how red his skin has turned. _Jesus_ , have they really soaked the sheets so badly? “I’m not changing the damn bedding, buddy.”

“Where did the ‘sweetheart’ go, _pal_?” Bucky questions, displeased with Steve’s answer.

Steve gets to the side of the bed where Bucky is lying, getting a knee near his hip. “I’m not changing the damn bedding, _sweetheart, love of my life, light of my life, apple of my eye._ ” Steve catches the twitch of the corner of his lips, even when Bucky tries to scowl.

Bucky cracks open an eye, glaring at the sudden shadow looming over him. “Shut it.”

“Bucky, _baby_ , stop pretending. We both know how much you actually love it. And don’t you think I have forgotten every pet name you’ve used tonight.” Steve lets a beat pass. “‘Baby boy,’ where did that one come fr—?” Steve gasps with surprise when a light blush colors Bucky’s cheeks. “Oh, my…”

“Get down here, I’m freezing my balls,” Bucky grumbles. Steve snickers because his friend’s blush is clearly darkening.

The bed is big enough for almost four people, which is useful when you’re too tired to change the bedding and can just occupy the other half of the mattress. That’s what they do when Steve takes a clean duvet and burrows under it with Bucky.

“Roll over,” Steve mumbles against Bucky’s forehead. Bucky only whines. “Ugh, come on, Buck.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Bucky, please,” Steve begs, his voice not caring the same humor. His limbs are still shaking and he wants it to stop as soon as possible.

Bucky finally opens his eyes to take a good look at Steve. His senses don’t need more light than the one streaming through the windows to see the lines on his face that give away that something isn’t quite right. He doesn’t ask questions, because Bucky already knows Steve’s need to sleep in a certain position when he needs comfort. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Steve needs to comfort someone else in order to comfort himself.

Just as predicted, the moment Bucky turns to the other side, Steve latches onto his back and lets out a long sigh of relief. His arms hold Bucky close enough that he can feel Steve’s chest every time he takes a breath. Steve has placed his hand over the center of Bucky’s chest, directly over his pulse, and it’s heartbreaking to think why that could be. “We’re safe,” Bucky repeats Steve’s own words from before.

“Mhm,” Steve murmurs. He nuzzles lovingly into the nape of Bucky’s neck.

Steve’s body has finally calmed down now that he can feel Bucky’s body flush to his and the agitated energy can’t find a purpose anymore. “Love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky, turning into mush against the body behind his and feeling in cloud seven, doesn’t even register when his lips mumble out words on their own volition. “Love you, Steven Grant Rogers.”

“And I’ll always do.”

“And I’ll… Wait. Steve, do I have to repeat after you? Are we giving our vows or something?”

Steve groans against his neck. “Why did you have to say that? You’re the worst.”

Bucky chuckles and his face is definitely warmer than five seconds ago (and he’s literally having the butterflies-in-my-fucking-stomach-like-I’m-a-pubescent feeling, but he’s not going to acknowledge that.) “I have loved you my whole life, Steve, I’m not stopping now.”

Steve hums in delight and burrows his face in Bucky’s hair. It still smells like home and his past and just plain Bucky with everything he’s been through.

The future is uncertain, a big interrogation, and that’s one of their only constants—it’s good to know that the other one is that they have each other. But, even if that is true, this moment in time, Bucky realizes, is the closest thing to perfection that he has ever experienced. And, in that same instant, lulled to sleep by Bucky’s respiration, Steve has one more taste of what peace feels like.  
_______

 

Draining the glass of water, Tony deposits it in the sink, hand slow and reluctant. He places his palms against the countertop and tries to breathe in, breathe out, a way to try and settle his nerves. His heart is fluttering inside his chest. With a final sigh, Tony steels himself and exits the kitchen, his legs and hands no longer hurting thanks to Dr. Cho (even better is that she’s going to be involved in Peter’s more delicate physical recovery.) The door to his bedroom is cracked open, the light and the voices spilling into the dark hallway. Finally at the entrance, Tony gives himself a moment to observe. 

The bed in his bedroom is already occupied by two people. (New bedroom since the last one isn’t finished yet and he’s pretty sure he’s about to change Pep’s plans for the restore and just order getting the whole suite demolished.) There’s a space between them big enough for another person and yet Tony can’t get himself to take another step. He watches them while they chat, one of Gamora’s legs bent while the other dangles propped on her knee; Quill is turned on his side and facing her with eyes bright with interest.

Quill laughs then, snapping Tony out of his absorptions; he shakes his head and gives a tentative step into the room, closing the door behind him. Quill spots him and gives him a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. Gamora, immediately noticing Quill’s sudden distraction, turns her head in the door’s direction.

“Finally,” she says and it sounds like she’s actually been waiting for him. She outstretches a hand in his direction and smile, making his stomach clench. She must notice his reluctance. Gamora sits up on the bed and Quill mimics her. “Tony, if you’re not comfortable we don’t have to do this.”

“No, no…” He swallows and tries to find some pluck to tell them whatever is haunting his mind. “It’s only sleeping together in the same bed.” But that doesn’t seem to explain much about anything.

“Tony,” Quill speaks up with a soothing voice, “we met like a week ago; you’re not obligated to do anything or to even feel okay with this.” Quill’s face gives away that the mere thought of Tony doing this out of some sense of obligation is making the man feel concerned. Quill’s face looks paler and if Tony dared to look at Gamora he would see her pensive expression, that one that makes her look that more enchanting.

 _Screw this._ Yes, definitely his life motto.

Quill and Gamora and the other Guardians are going to leave in less than a week and Tony has the opportunity to spend a night with the two of them. Just sleeping, nothing else; exactly as he’s assured them. On the other hand, they have assured him that they’ll come back in less than a week if they’re lucky. Even if it pains him, Tony can’t take their word. He wants but… he knows better by now.

He bridges the space between door and bed and, crawling over Gamora doing his best not to touch her and make her uncomfortable, he gets on the center. His body is stiff and he’s keeping his limbs tucked to his body. Quill covers them with the blanket and asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn on the TV.

“I’ve been told that _Karate Kid_ had a third movie and even a fourth,” Quill says, getting comfy against the pillows. Gamora, at Tony’s left, turns on her side and burrows into the pillows and yawns. The two of them are wearing Tony’s old pajamas, stating that they had forgotten their own in their suite and were too lazy to go back for them. Gamora is in a ratty band t-shirt—too washed out to make out what band—and a pair of shorts. On his part, Quill is in his boxers and wearing one of Tony’s t-shirts. (In reality, Tony doesn’t have actual pajamas, only a lot of clothes that turn into ones when he’s too lazy to undress.)

“I hope we’re going to start with the first,” Gamora says even when her eyes are closed. “What is a ‘karate kid’?”

“I’ll explain it when we start watching the movie,” Quill tells her. “And of course we’re watching the first one,” he scoffs.

In the end, even if Gamora looks ready to fall asleep, she sits up on the bed propping her back against some pillows. She’s closer to Tony now and he instinctively moves in the opposite direction, this only making him be closer to Quill. Tony is so rigid now that he’s sure his muscles are about to start cramping. It’s stupid, he knows this, and he’s trying to change it but just can’t.

A hand slithers through his locks, massaging his scalp and Tony is a goner, a small sound escaping his lips and his eyes dropping shut. He angles his head so Gamora can have better access. Tony hears the movie start and he’s determined on watching it with them, but suddenly a larger hand slips into his own. When Tony opens his eyes, Quill’s own are on him, a sweet curve to his lips. He turns a little on his side so his other hand can reach Tony and rub his arm.

“You know, you don’t look up for it,” Quill comments mildly but there aren’t any expectations in his words.

“I am, I want to watch the movie with you,” Tony promises but even he can recognize that his voice is a bit slurred.

“Okay.” Quill clearly doesn’t believe him but doesn’t push either. He doesn’t return to his previous position but instead cranes his head so he has a good view of the TV, while his hand keeps a mindless motion, rubbing Tony’s arm.

Tony tries to pay attention, he really does, but the sleepiness is replaced by a self-awareness of the hands caressing him and Gamora’s leg under the blanket touching his arm. He doesn’t dare move. Daniel LaRusso is kicking open a door and if it was any other time, Tony would already be snorting a laugh. Right now, his brain doesn’t even register the scene—kinda difficult when Gamora’s hand travels down his neck to his shoulder and back up again. She asks Quill a question and Tony tries to concentrate on their words but Quill chooses that _exact moment_ to slip an arm around Tony’s middle and use him as a pillow, their bodies pulled together. God, his face must already have turned red as a tomato.

He’s surrounded from all direction and it still doesn’t feel enough. He hates that he wants more. Tony exhales a little breath and wills his body to _just stop_.

Maybe half an hour has passed, Gamora and Quill’s touches already less frequent, when Gamora gives a big yawn and slips down the bed, adopting Quill’s same position. She pillows her head on his chest and rests a hand under her chin. Another question is asked and immediately answered by the younger man. Tony is sure he’s going to catch fire from how hot his body has turned. Already sporting a semi in his pants, Tony is devising a way to extract himself from the bed and go to the bathroom where he can deal with the problem.

Tony’s mouth opens with a breathless gasp when Quill’s leg slithers up his own until his knee bumps into his crotch. Quill falls silent, his explanation about the current scene cut off and his eyes drawn to Tony. The man in question has his eyes screwed shut in mortification. _Shit, shit, shit._ Gamora is asking what is going on but Tony can only pray for a quick death. He’s already opening his mouth to stammer out an apology and give some explanation, when an unexpected hand slips under his pants and boxers, palming his erection.

“Nngh,” Tony chokes out. His eyes snap open and stare unseeingly at the ceiling, the hand turning more insistent.

“Peter?” Gamora questions.

Tony waits for the man to give an explanation but his cock is suddenly stroked by the large hand and in his mind there is only static remaining.

“ _Oh God,_ ” is the only thing he can articulate, head thrown back into the pillow, the tendons of his neck straining.

Gamora doesn’t ask anything else so she must already have caught up on what the current situation is. Tony closes his eyes in fear of seeing her reaction.

Quill strokes him slowly, taking his damn time, and Tony wants to tell him to stop teasing but can’t form anything more complex than controlled moans and groans. He half opens an eye when a hand tilts his head to the side and this must be a dream or...

Gamora places gentle lips over his. “Do you want this?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, yes, please,” he begs, hands fisted in the sheets. His hips buck up the instant Quill thumbs the head of his cock, smearing up and down his length the pre-come trickling from the tip.

It’s in that moment that Gamora licks his lips and Tony opens up, moaning into her mouth when her tongue strokes his, their lips and tongues moving against each other. Gamora tilts her head just so, granting her better access to Tony’s mouth. Her hand slips under his t-shirt, stroking muscles, and then lowers to the waist of his pants. Tony lifts his hips off the mattress so Gamora and Quill can get pants and boxers off of him, the two quickly followed by his t-shirt.

Gamora hovers a bit over him while stealing hungry wet kisses, one hand moving up and down his chest, bumping into hard nipples and causing Tony to let out a strangled moan. Tony can’t open his eyes but he feels Quill mouthing at his hipbone, one hand still stroking lazily his hard cock while the other takes hold of his right thigh, hoists it over his shoulder and then pushes it at the side, spreading his legs apart, making him feel more exposed. Tony’s mind, concentrated on Gamora’s lips and tongue and hands, zeroes on the hot mouth biting at his thigh, teeth scraping against the oversensitive skin.

The two bodies are rubbing against Tony, Quill’s hard dick rutting against Tony’s left thigh, searching for some relief; Gamora’s scorching-hot body is sliding against Tony’s side and she’s moaning into his mouth. Tony can’t leave them like these, giving him what he desires while they get nothing in return. He twists his body in Gamora’s direction and as if they already know what his intention is, Gamora gives the both of them some breathing room. Quill releases Tony’s cock, causing the man to whimper in disagreement with his actions, and lies on his side to face Gamora and place his chest flush to Tony’s back. Neither one of the two men is wearing a shirt and Tony doesn’t recall when Quill got rid of his own.

“Get this off,” Tony makes his throat work, stretching and arm behind himself and pulling at Quill’s boxers with one hand. “Oh. _Oh fuck._ Ju-just get them off.”

Quill’s hand is back to stroking his cock. His own dick, hot and hard, rubs at the small of Tony’s back and slicks his already sweat-damp skin with his own pre-come. Gamora’s the only one still completely dressed and Tony doesn’t know how to ask her to start shedding clothes. The t-shirt is clinging to her damp body and her chest is heaving with each breath. Finally, she gets on her knees and throws away the garment. Tony’s mouth opens, the breath getting stuck in his lungs; Quill’s own hand has stopped its stroking and is reaching out for her. Gamora smiles and bends down to kiss the man, a slick sound resonating in the room and causing Tony’s rock-hard cock to twitch appreciatively.

It isn’t long until Gamora settles on her side, her front flush to Tony’s and her mouth latching to his. He grunts against her lips when Quill resumes fisting up and down his dick, his hips moving against Tony’s ass. Tony can feel Quill’s little puffs of air on his shoulder blades that turn into openmouthed kisses and sharp bites. Tony needs to take a moment just to breathe or else he’ll lose his mind.

_This is really happening._

With an arm around her waist holding her close, Tony gives Gamora a moment to breathe while she rubs against him, a damp patch already between her legs wetting Tony’s own skin, marking him the same way Quill’s cock is doing. Her breathing stops and her fingers squeeze unconsciously at Tony’s chest when he slips a hand under her shorts and underwear, fingers traveling over her mound until they reach her slick slit. A sweet sigh escapes her lips when Tony starts rubbing around her clit and after a moment applies pressure over the top of it, causing the clit to harden after some time.

“ _Oh, fuck._ ” Quill sounds breathless, hand frozen on Tony’s cock. He buries his face against Tony’s back and resurfaces only to whisper, “It’s even better than what I imagined.”

Fingers now buried in Gamora, her hot walls welcoming them as if they’ve been waiting for him, Tony drinks in her breathless moans. The moment Quill retreats a little bit and releases his dick, his eyes still trained on the other two occupants of the bed, Tony rolls on his back and drags Gamora atop his chest. Quill undresses her completely.

The three fingers deep inside of her keep their pace, slowly entering and exiting her, while he thumbs at her clit. Even with his cock unattended, there’s a fire beneath Tony’s skin, stoked by the image of the woman against his chest, her hips rolling.

His attention is dragged to Quill when he lies on his back by Tony’s side, his lips parted like his brain isn’t able to interpret exactly what it’s seeing. Tony licks his own dry lips, finally having a moment to appreciate Quill undressed when the man latches onto his mouth with no warning, kissing him dirty and with no finesse. He’s frantically rolling his hips against Tony, hands touching everywhere they can and not staying on a single spot for long. His moans combine with Gamora’s and, causing Tony’s head to spin.

“Wanted to do this so many times,” Quill exhales into Tony’s mouth, and he has to concentrate into not forgetting the rhythm of his hand and fingers—either way, he tries to chase his mouth. Gamora whines at the back of her throat and Quill brushed the strands of hair away from her sweaty face and gives her a long and thorough kiss that leaves the two of them with smug smirks and panting. Until Tony buries another finger and flickers his wrist. Gamora cries out, nails digging into Tony’s biceps and he fleetingly wishes for the half-moon marks to stay forever on his skin.

Tony nudges her side until she looks up at him, eyes bright but unfocused. Without words, he tries to get her to move to her knees, his fingers away from her heat and helping her get upright. “That’s it, baby,” Tony hears his rough voice say.

Gamora, already knowing what to do, gets her knees at each side of Tony’s head and lowers herself until he can put his lips to her, finally kissing and tasting. The two let out simultaneous moans. The same way Tony’s hands dart to knead at her ass cheeks, traveling up her back and then settling at the back of her sweaty thighs, Gamora’s hands fist into Tony’s hair, pulling and twisting, mouth hanging open and breath hitching in her chest.

Tony gazes at her; Gamora’s eyes are closed in pleasure and her lips are parted while she lets out little mm’s and ah’s that go straight to his dick. Quill is looking in awe at the two of them, not giving any attention to his own cock, hard against his stomach and flushed a beautiful red that makes Tony wish to have it in his mouth. How will the two of them taste at the same time?

He sucks and licks at her, tasting the woman and only wanting more. His jaw aches and spit is running down his chin to his neck but Tony can’t bring himself to give a shit about it. Her fingers are digging painfully into his scalp but he’s unable to feel anything that isn’t the wonder invading his mouth or the male hand resuming pumping his cock.

“You two are _so beautiful_ together,” Quill murmurs into his ear, his hot breath sending a chill down Tony’s spine.

He moans wantonly, pleading eyes directed at Quill whose face is now over his, watching him with dark eyes. Gamora rolls her hips and a strangled groan leaves her throat when three fingers breach her without any warning, stroking and scissoring in intervals. The noises she makes are getting more frantic and her walls start squeezing his fingers and then relax around them. Her thighs are trembling and she throws back her head, hair caressing her glistering skin and sticking to her sweaty face, hands against Tony’s chest to support her. Both Tony and Quill are enthralled by the image.

The moment she starts writhing over him, hips moving and cries of pleasure getting higher and more frequent, there’s a sudden heat swallowing almost all of his cock and Tony freezes, the overwhelming sensation just too much to bear. Gamora gives a confused whine, her hands petting Tony’s head and face like she thinks something bad has happened to him, which must be the reason why she’s looking down at him with concern clearly written all over her face. Drawing in a steadying breath, Tony forces his mind to focus on what’s really important and his tongue returns to licking around her clit, his fingers drawing new moans from her throat.

“ _Ah!_ ” she cries out the moment his fingers hit the bundle of nerves, her walls squeezing. Tony strokes relentlessly inside her and exhales a breath against her lips, immediately returning his mouth and tongue to them. “ _Oh God… Oh, T-Tony…_ ” It sounds like there’s something else she wants to say but can’t properly concentrate on finding out what exactly it is.

Tony gives a miserable moan when his spit-slick cock is exposed to the cool air. Quill positions himself behind Gamora and presses his chest to her back, arms around her to hold her up while she writhes with pleasure. His hips roll against her and his hands don’t stop stroking her body or playing with her hard nipples. He whispers something in her ear that Tony doesn’t catch but it must be good because she mewls in frustration, clearly wanting to come.

“Come on, Gamora,” Tony hears him murmur softly. “Let go, baby. We’re right here with you, _just let go_.” He says it directly looking at Tony and Tony can only moan his agreement, the vibration alongside everything else making Gamora even more desperate for release.

Tony watches Quill’s hand glide down her abdomen until his fingers graze Tony’s hand and he introduces another finger into her, which turns into two after a minute. Gamora exhales his name and she makes it sound so ethereal that Quill’s eyes widen, surprised by the odd tone. He kisses her neck.

With five fingers stretching her open and fucking into her, and a hot mouth and tongue playing with her, Gamora’s eyes squeeze shut and she finally comes undone, her firm muscles in a gorgeous display when her body tenses like a bowstring. Her lips are half open but there is no sound coming out; it almost looks like she’s stopped breathing altogether. Tony hasn’t paused stroking her spot and licking at her dripping slit.

A shuddering breath escapes her. “Fuck, Tony. Tony, _stop, I can’t—_ ” she doesn’t finish the sentence, still recovering her breath, body leaning against Quill.

She pants and Tony finally pulls his wet fingers out of her and Quill follows suit, deciding to sit between Tony’s spread legs. Gamora shudders at the sudden emptiness. Tony kisses between her legs before she sits on his chest, a blissed-out smile curving her lips while she tries to regain her breath. She frames his face with her palms and plants a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Thank you, Tony, that was…” She kisses his lips and licks into his mouth, her loose and warm body doing things to Tony’s insides. For some reason, it’s now that there’s only silence that Tony feels flustered.

Tony is stroking her slick sides and thighs, feeling relaxed and serene. He loves the way Gamora is brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones and looking down at him with an easy smile, her eyes hooded and the lines of her face relaxed. Everything else that is not her looks hazy, edges blurred and unfocused.

Out of the blue, the entire length of his cock is swallowed by Quill’s burning mouth, the head bumping against his throat. The stimulation is so sudden and strong that Tony sees stars dance before his eyes, his body turning rigid under Gamora’s. His legs lift, bent at the knees and heels digging into the mattress. Quill holds onto his thighs and—

“ _Oh fuck!_ ” he curses—arm shooting up and to cover his face—when Quill starts sucking without giving Tony a moment to recover. “Quill— _Ah Jesus!_ ”

He’s going to come. Oh, shit, fuck, he’s going to come any moment now and he doesn’t want to. Tony doesn’t want this moment to ever end. He clenches his jaw and screws his eyes shut, concentrating on _not.fucking.coming._

With a last suck at his leaking tip, Quill gets his mouth away from Tony’s cock with an obscene, wet sound, smacking his lips like he’s tasting the sweetest treat. Gamora gets off his chest and lies by his side, just observing them with rapt attention and allowing Tony the mind-boggling image of Peter Quill licking a broad stripe up his tortured cock, red and swollen and dripping. Quill licks a bit of spunk off of the corner of his mouth. Tony whines at the back of his throat, his head turning from side to side on the pillow, but not for long because he _needs_ to keep his eyes on the other man.

“This is not happening,” he mumbles with bated breath, his brain unable to believe what his senses are relaying to it.

“Pretty sure Peter is sucking you like he will die if he doesn’t,” Gamora’s voice purrs into his ear and a shiver runs up his back.

As if in perfect synchrony, Gamora bites Tony’s hard nipple and rolls it between her teeth, while the heat of the man’s mouth engulfs his dick once again, his lips going as far as reaching Tony’s pubic bone. His eyes roll at the back of his head, a sharp cry resonating in the room. Tony’s back arches off the bed, hips bucking into the other man’s mouth and Tony only wants to fuck into his mouth until he shoots down his throat. Even if he’s not about to do just that, Gamora’s hand lands on his hip and keeps him pinned to the bed, tongue lapping and teeth biting at his neck.

“ _'M gonna…_ ” he tries to warn but there isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs, and his mind is soaring somewhere high above. Quill’s lips are beautifully stretched around his cock and that alone is too much for Tony’s sanity. It gets worse when Quill starts moaning around him like he’s the one getting a blowjob.

“You’re so beautiful like this.” The pleasure must have made Tony go insane because there is no way he’s heard right. But Quill’s face is standing over him now, a dreamy smile adorning his lips while his fist keeps relentlessly pumping Tony’s cock.

He lowers himself and licks into Tony’s mouth, a sloppy and wet kiss, dirty enough that even Gamora groans against Tony’s neck. “You gonna come for us, Tony?” he croons, thumbing at Tony’s slit. Tony wants to answer but this is too much, he feels like he’s going to combust, his body about to implode, his mind to fall to pieces and and…

Quill kisses at the corner of his eye when a tear starts rolling down. “We’re gonna take care of you, Tony.” Gamora hums her agreement, kissing the opposite corner of his eye.

Quill’s own erection is rubbing against Tony’s thigh, the man’s breath hitching in his chest when he finally grants some well-deserved friction to his ignored cock. His hand doesn’t stop moving up and down Tony’s cock, thumbing at the visible vain along his length, and he’s planting sweet kisses over Tony’s face and neck.

“ _Ah, ah, ah,_ ” Tony lets out a breathy string of moans, a hand shooting up and grasping at Quill’s back. His flushed body is covered in sweat, the sheets damp and slick under the three of them.

Tony is so close… He knows the orgasm is going to be a strong one, can almost taste it in his tongue, feel it in his backbone... It’s already overwhelming and maybe that’s why he finds himself scared.

By now, Tony has his eyes closed, tears rolling freely down his face, cock screaming for release. He doesn’t want this to end _please don’t, please don’t leave me._ His thoughts aren’t coherent anymore, that’s for sure.

“Baby, you gotta let go,” Quill coos with such a loving voice that it pulls a sob out of Tony.

“ _Please._ ” He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for.

“Tony, we’re here,” Gamora says against his skin, kissing his cheek and rubbing comforting circles over the spasming muscles of his abdomen. “We’ve got you, Tony”

“Please, come for us, baby. Don’t be afraid.”

Quill slides down his body and takes him into his mouth. With one hand stroking at the base of his cock, Quill only needs to suck three times before Tony is emitting something between a broken cry and a sob, spilling into his mouth and spilling and spilling… Quill’s throat hugs around his cock while he swallows every drop, filthy moans resonating around Tony like Quill is the one having his dick sucked into oblivion.

“ _Peter! Oh God, Peter, st—! Ah, ah!_ ”

With his hands fisted in the strands of hair of the man between his legs sucking every drop of come out of him, Tony writhes in pleasure and pain, nerve endings ablaze and voice hoarse from screaming. When Quill flicks his tongue out to catch some stray drops and gives a tender kiss to the tip of Tony’s softening cock, he finally climbs Tony’s body until he can kiss his open mouth.

“That was amazing,” he softly says against Tony’s neck, breathing heavily. Again, Gamora can only hum her agreement, apparently too tired to do more than that and mouth a sloppy kiss at Tony’s cheek.

Tony needs an embarrassing amount of time for the black spots to clear from his vision and for his breath and heartbeat to settle into something normal. He’s still floating, guard let down, when he finally notices that his left hand is holding onto Quill’s back with a death grip and the same with his right hand gripping Gamora’s.

“What.” He swallows and clears his throat before giving it another try. “What about you?”

Quill looks at him, confusion clear on his face until his eyes light up with understanding. He lifts his hips enough for Tony to see his soft cock and the come covering them along with the sheets.

“You’re quite the show when having an orgasm, has anyone told you that? Just watching you was…” He ends the sentence with a little smile that seems almost sheepish. He kisses Tony’s lips and then Gamora’s head; it appears she’s melting against Tony’s side, almost purring in a state of deep satisfaction.

Only a couple of minutes have passed of the three of them recovering when Quill gets off Tony and to his feet without saying anything. Tony feels something icy swallow him, freezing his insides. Gamora is still dozing off in his arm so he can’t be leaving, right? But then, she opens an eye and catches sight of Quill going into the bathroom and follows him. Tony’s chest constricts, making it difficult to breathe. Time stretches and Tony’s cold body only stiffens even further when the two of them exit the bathroom, cleaned up and one of the woman’s arms around the man’s waist. Tony wants to curl into himself and close his eyes so he won’t have to witness what is bound to happen. He does close them and after a minute hears the door of the bedroom open.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Tony listens with his heart beating against his chest and eyes burning with something more than shame. He wants to get under the blankets so he can cover himself. 

Someone climbs by his side. Tony opens his eyes and sees Gamora on the bed. He tries not to show how stunned he feels by her actions, so sure that they were about to leave. Quill isn’t in the room, though, but after less than five seconds, Tony can finally inhale some air, a wobbly smile directed at Quill when he returns with two bottles of water. He passes Gamora one and Tony the other—he hadn’t even notices how dry his throat was.

“Let’s change the sheets and then we’ll go to bed,” Gamora suggest with her hand waiting for Tony’s, the empty bottles left on the bedside table.

Tony can’t believe how stupid he is for doubting Gamora and Quill.

He gets on his shaky legs and they strip the bed and put fresh sheets, and only then does he note that the TV is turned off—he has the best A.I. He’s about to collapse on the bed when a hand on the small of his back halts his plans. Quill is holding a damp cloth that he then uses to clean the come and dried sweat off of Tony’s skin. Quill doesn’t miss the chance to pepper kisses along his still hot skin, making goosebumps surface all over it. He throws the cloth away, uncaring about where it lands, and guides Tony to the bed.

“You have a really pretty dick, you know?” Quill slurs against Tony’s skin when they finally arrange how they’re going to sleep and the lights are turned off. He’s sure Quill must be able to sense the way his skin heats up even more thanks to the words.

“Shut up.” He would sound more convincing if his voice wasn’t so weak.

“I’m serious. I want you to fuck me with it someday.”

Tony chokes on his own spit but immediately starts laughing. Gamora chuckles by his side and Quill only looks at him with a smug expression. When his laughter dies down, it leaves him with a hurting stomach.

Tony fills his lungs with air and then lets it out. He has to repeat to himself that this is actually happening, that Quill is really spooning him from behind and Gamora’s face is just inches away from his own, an adorable expression on her face whiles she watches him and tries to keep her eyes open for a bit longer, the three of them covered with a soft blanket. She slips a hand to his neck and strokes his skin like the simple act of just touching him is something she finds pleasant. Tony takes her hand and kisses it. He’s not sure he will be able to sleep, not when cocooned by nude bodies that shouldn’t be in his bed with him. There is no logical explanation for the world allowing Tony Stark to have this, to _keep_ something so precious.

“Tony, you’re shaking,” Gamora points out with a crease between her eyebrows. Tony only shrugs.

Quill doesn’t comment on it but his right hand slips under Tony and stretches him even tighter against his body. “You okay, right, honey?”

Gamora groans at the pet name but Tony sees her fond smile. “He just _really_ wants to call someone ‘honey,’” she explains.

“Oh, come _ooon_ , Gamora. Why did you have to do that?”

“Sorry, Peter,” Tony says amused, “but I don’t like it either.” He pats his thigh in a consoling way.

“Ow…” he laments near his ear and Tony is certainly enjoying their positions.

“Don’t be sad, honey.” Tony tries not to giggle when he says the endearment and continuous stroking Quill’s thigh.

“Oh,” is the only thing Quill says; it sounds to Tony’s ears like he’s just realized something. “I like that. Didn’t see that one coming.” Tony has to laugh after that and even Gamora snickers into the pillow. “I’m serious, by the way. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.” Tony can hear the smile in his voice so he’s not sure if Quill really means that.

“Sleep in it,” Gamora says. Her cheeky smile only widens when Quill gives an exaggerated groan. After that, they fall silent.

Quill’s breath ruffles Tony’s hair and the warmth radiating from his chest manages to quell the dark thoughts that have been creeping his insides. Gamora bridges the few inches between them and hugs Tony to her own chest and the man just sinks into the mattress. Actually, it seems for once Tony is going to sleep feeling safer and taken care of, and isn’t that feeling a novelty?

A few days ago, Gamora and Quill promised him this is only the beginning for the three of them. Tony wishes that believing it wasn’t so difficult for him—but this definitely is a way to make it easier.

He isn’t a religious man but Tony is going to pray, he’s going to pray for this to last a little longer.

Tony’s eyes drift closed. For once, his mind is free from any panic or anxiety and he can succumb to sleep’s pull without any second thoughts. He’s being cradled in careful arms and there is one thing he is sure of right now and it’s that, here, feeling wholly enveloped in their embrace, he is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned dirty real quick, folks. 
> 
> Um, so… this is my first time writing smut so bear that in mind. Sorry if it was bad or something :/ I mean, I think it’s not that bad ?? Maybe ??? Tell me what you think, please.
> 
> I wasn’t planning on this story having any smut but one night the two scenes just came to my mind and I just couldn’t get rid of them; they literally wrote themselves while I was trying to fall asleep. Should have turned the laptop on and started writing smh
> 
> Okay, ATTENTION. There is something I want to explain about this chapter and it’s that I tried to write the two scenes as one couple that have known each other their whole lives and act very differently when they’re being intimate than the three people that aren’t only getting into a poly relationship, but two of them have already been together for a couple of years or more and are now getting involved with a third person, one that is kinda insecure about where they really stand. Hope I’ve achieved my goal.
> 
> So one more chapter to go and this is finished FOR REAL THIS TIME. Well… okay, I may add a bonus chapter because I kind of got a prompt (by anony1) to write Rhodey and Pepper the time they arrived to the compound and met the Guardians. Honestly, it has been in my mind since I read the comment and I at least have the beginning of the chapter already formed… in my head :) But yeah, I like the idea.
> 
> (You know what is fucking weird??? Watching interviews with these people after writing _these_ scenes. I feel dirty D: Though I see the actors and I don’t think about the characters thank god bc I know that a lot of people have that kind of issue.)
> 
> Edit: I really can’t read this without turning red omGAWD


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not the same after watching the Avengers: Endgame trailer and I won’t ever be.

Tony woke up ten hours ago—all right, it’s probably more like ten minutes ago. Still, he can’t pretend to care since he’s spent them completely blissed out, feeling like he’s floating in a cloud. To put it into perspective, Tony has woken up so positive that even the empty spot by his right didn’t make him spiral into a panic attack or something as pointlessly dramatic. He’s hopeful and his mind isn’t filled with images of him being tossed to the side at any given moment.

For all he knows, it could have something to do with the way Quill is draped over him like a really warm and clingy blanket, his face mashed into Tony’s belly. The man is drooling all over Tony’s abdomen, and even that kind of unworried behavior has been helpful to calm Tony’s nerves the moment they started to rear their ugly heads. Quill is snoring, too, probably has been doing it for hours, even though it hasn’t woken Tony through the night.

Not a lot of light is being filtered by the darkened windows but Tony is sure it’s already morning. He can hear noises coming from the apartment and he assumes it must be Gamora. His hand has found its way to Quill’s hair and Tony smiles unconsciously when the man’s arms tighten at his sides but the snoring goes on unperturbed. Tony pets the mussed up hair and keeps his eyes closed, the last cobwebs of sleep clearing away. His stomach rumbles loudly and that finally makes Quill twitch, his face scrunching up when the sound is repeated and resonates against his ear. Tony snickers when Quill’s stubble scratches his stomach.

“Time 's it?” Quill mumbles, dragging the blanket over his head even when there isn’t any morning light.

“It’s nine past ten in the morning, Star-Lord,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. answers, the windows finally letting the morning light inside. Quill grunts but Tony can only laugh at the name F.R.I.D.A.Y. still calls him by.

“We should get up,” Tony says when Quill doesn’t show any intention of getting out of bed or even the blankets.

“Why?” he whines, his warm lips making Tony’s insides flip.

“'Cause we have stuff to do,” Tony reminds him. He pushes the blankets over Quill’s head and the man hisses at the sudden brightness.

After a lot of whining and protesting, the two men end in the shower. Tony feels awkward at first but Quill’s casual and relaxed attitude is more than helpful and welcomed. There’s only a bit of making out and a lot of clinging on Quill’s part, who assures to Tony that he will slip if he isn’t being held since he hasn’t had enough sleep. Tony humors him—it isn’t like he’s about to start complaining about their closeness. He does miss Gamora, though, but doesn’t mention it.

“Sometimes she has nightmares,” Quill says after Tony washes off the shampoo. His voice is nonchalant but he isn’t making any eye contact and that’s how Tony knows things aren’t that simple. “Shouldn’t be me the one telling you but I…” He cuts his sentence off and gets under his own spray of water to rinse the soap off his arms and torso.

Tony doesn’t push, just lets him decide if he’s going to continue or not. When they’re finally getting out of the shower, Quill says, “It’s not my story to tell, clearly, but I just wanted you to know why she wasn’t in bed with us when you woke up.”

Tony nods his head. “Don’t worry, I understand.”

He hands Quill a towel and gets one for himself; he wraps it around his waist and returns to the bedroom. Quill follows him, drying himself. Tony is already sitting on the bed when he realizes he doesn’t have another towel for his hair but doesn’t have to worry for long because Quill is covering his head with one and starting to dry him. The movements are gentle and Tony feels like he could be lulled back to sleep if he let himself. He places his palms on the outside of Quill’s thighs and drags him closer; he doesn’t do more than feel the naked skin under his hands.

When his hair is dry enough that it isn’t dripping, Quill uncovers Tony’s head and kneels between his legs, head bowed, expectant. Tony snorts but starts drying Quill’s hair in return. The silence and the repetitive motion is peaceful and feels almost intimate. When he’s done, Tony still feels confident enough to kiss the top of Quill’s head and just press his face there for a few seconds. Quill lowers his head and pillows it on Tony’s lap. They spend a good chunk of time in that position, just breathing and drinking in the contact, until it gets too chilly, then they have to get dressed. Tony tries not to grin too much when he sees Quill choose an Iron Man t-shirt. He must fail because Quill smiles back and kisses him.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” he says when Tony can’t do much more than sigh against his lips. He slips an arm around him and they exit the bedroom.

It seems Gamora isn’t in the apartment but there is definitely someone in their kitchen.

“How does he want me not to call him ‘trash panda’ when he does shit like this?” Quill wonders out loud but his voice is quiet enough that it doesn’t carry to Rocket. Tony can only see the guy’s legs since the rest of his body is inside the refrigerator.

“Hey, Rocket,” Tony greets him.

“Gamora said she’s in the communal kitchen.” He doesn’t even get his head out of the fridge. Tony doesn’t really care, though.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Shouldn’t he be in the garbage looking for his meal?” Tony smacks him on the chest but Quill only snickers shamelessly. Tony is grateful Rocket hasn’t heard.

It isn’t long until they’re in the elevator on their way to the kitchen. Tony still waits for the atmosphere to turn awkward or tense but it doesn’t happen. Quill rests his cheek on top of his head and Tony tries not to move—he really wants to kick him for doing that.

“Did you sleep well?” Quill asks him through a yawn. Tony only nods placidly, enjoying their current position.

Quill kisses his cheek when they reach the floor, the action so casual and sweet that for a moment Tony doesn’t know what to do. They get out of the elevator and Tony can already hear different voices coming from the kitchen.

“Buck, come on, stop it.” Tony recognizes Steve’s voice and Bucky’s laugh. He wonders what is going on that makes Steve use such a resigned tone.

He doesn’t have to wait long to get an answer. When they get to them, Tony and Quill have a perfect view of a cooking Steve who has to put up with a 200 pounds man clinging to his back.

Gamora has a book in her hand but a smirk on her lips that allows Tony to know that she is actually amused. She’s sitting at the table with a plate full of pancakes. Tony has reached the conclusion that she actually reads the books and doesn’t use them as a way for people to leave her alone—it’s only that she can read and pay attention to her surroundings at the same time.

“Bucky, I swear—” Whatever Bucky does, it makes Steve squeal like a little kid. “That’s it!” He leaves the pancakes and takes Bucky’s arms from around his waist. Tony tries not to laugh too loud when the man whines and his face turns into one of shock and misery.

“Okay, okay. Jeez. Frigid,” he mutters under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Well I did spend seventy years frozen,” Steve deadpans, already back to the stove. “Scram,” Steve orders when Bucky gets close enough to land a loud kiss on his cheek.

The man snickers but takes a seat on the table—and so do Tony and Quill, finally. Gamora greets them with a smile and a kiss to the cheek. Quill is too distracted, almost gaping at the two men, still not believing the real nature of their relationship, one that they aren’t trying to hide anymore.

In the last three days, the centenarian couple has been all lovey-dovey, which did in fact surprise Tony and some of the other residents of the household as well—one of them being Bucky himself. It’s like he can’t really believe his senses when Steve reciprocates the affections. Tony is pretty sure that Bucky has turned it into some kind of challenge—either way, Steve almost never backs up. Even now, half a week after everyone has already discovered that they are more than friends, Tony has noticed how he still turns red and awkward when his _boyfriend_ (oh how Tony loves to use that specific word in front of him just so he can see Steve almost combust) indulges in some PDA in front of people.

Another thing that’s been happening recently, it’s that Tony finds his hands in other people’s hands—specifically in Gamora’s and Quill’s. Maybe to other people it wouldn’t seem like something weird or even worthy of mention, but Tony’s brain doesn’t even register it when it happens—it just comes that _natural_ to his body and it tends to freak him out sometimes. He tries to hide it but Gamora almost always notices. He chances a look at her and she just rolls her eyes good-naturedly, placing her book on the table and giving his hand a squeeze before pulling it away to start slicing at her pancakes.

“So…” Quill starts saying. By now, Tony knows the man well enough to be sure he’s about to say something even he is aware maybe shouldn’t be voiced. “You two have been lovers for long?”

Steve’s back stiffens and Bucky’s face turns into something impossible to read—Tony has the impression that neither one of them is breathing.

“I mean,” Quill starts saying with hurried words, trying to backtrack, “there was nothing in the history books or documentaries—at least not when I was a kid.”

Tony tries to mask his laugh with a cough and Gamora doesn’t even look like she’s heard a thing, enjoying her breakfast in peace—there’s a muscle twitching in her jaw, though. Bucky stares unblinkingly at Quill and Steve hasn’t yet moved a muscle, his back to them.

“Uh…” The poor guy looks like he’s internally praying for time to turn back or the floor to open under his feet and swallow him. “It’s just that… Nothing. Wish I didn’t use the word ‘lovers,’” he mutters the last sentence and winces the moment it’s out of his mouth.

Tony squeezes his hand and then pats his shoulder. “Oh, Peter.” His hand travels to his hair and Tony strokes the soft locks. “We all will make like we didn’t hear anything.”

“I won’t.” Quill jumps in his chair when Sam speaks.

“Thank God you aren’t Rocket or Drax,” he heaves out, a hand over his heart.

Sam gets to Steve’s side and bumps their hips together, Steve finally unfreezing. “You haven’t answered, Steve,” Sam teases with a grin. Steve says something in a low voice. “What was that, Rogers?”

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles.

“But everyone wants to know!” Steve growls but Sam only laughs at his behavior. Tony can only imagine how red his face must have turned.

“Okay, but you could at least tell us when you realized you liked your _boyfriend_.” Sam turns so he can wink at Tony. He obviously hasn’t been really subtle.

Tony doesn’t turn but, at the corner of his eye, he catches Bucky sitting up and taking notice.

“I’m going to kill you,” Steve says loud enough for the room to hear.

“Come on, grandpa, tell us about how you met grandma!” Tony says cheerfully, obviously having to put his two cents. In his defense, everyone looks like they want to know.

_Did dad know about this?_

Something tells him he didn’t.

Steve mumbles something that no one—not even Bucky who is at the edge of his seat—can make out. “Did anyone hear that? Cap, we didn’t hear you.” Tony is finding it hard to keep his laughter at bay.

“Sixteen,” Steve finally says grudgingly. “Maybe fifteen.”

“Oooh, high school sweethearts!” Tony exclaims and claps his hands, sure that he must be reaching some personal record on how much he’s annoying Steve. Steve huffs. “Wilson, tell me how red his face has turned.”

“He’s reaching radioactive levels.” Steve hits him on the stomach. Sam bends over with an ‘oomph’ and decides it’s time to take his plate and sit at the table with the others.

They watch Bucky when he gets up and approaches Steve, getting an arm around his neck and pulling him close. Steve doesn’t pull away but he does say, “Can’t you people let me cook?”

Bucky kisses his cheek and holds him close while Steve finishes the scrambled eggs. He turns his head and accepts the peck Bucky gives him. Sam clearly has to ‘aww’ at the scene but Tony actually fears that the two men will gaze into each other’s eyes for a few minutes. It’s a validated fear since it has been happening for the last days, the two men parading their mutual devotion every five minutes. They don’t, thank the gods.

(Tony is starting to think they’re just trying to make all the others jealous or something.) (Quill agrees with him.) (Gamora didn’t even let them finish and exited the room the moment they tried to ask her opinion on the matter.)

Steve takes a plate for himself and another for Bucky, while Bucky gives Tony his own. Sam passes him the maple syrup. Tony eyes him for a second but tries not to overthink the team’s actions.

It’s not that people have been treating him differently since that night they got attacked and Mantis had to intervene but… well, they kinda have. It’s not really noticeable, though. Steve is still his mother-hen-self, but Tony feels like the others have been more attentive, maybe even more considerate around him. He still can’t tell if he hates it or it’s the opposite. Sam will push the salt near him when they’re having dinner (because all of them have been having almost every meal together), Natasha will ask how he is… As he’s already said, it’s not that noticeable. It doesn’t feel like they’re trying to manipulate him but even if that isn’t the case, Tony can’t have a grasp of what they are trying to achieve with this behavior.

It doesn’t feel like they are the Avengers again or like any of them (Tony included) is trying to play a role, to replicate something that is already gone. It feels like they’re trying to fit together even with the uneven edges. Tony knows they will have to talk about it sometime but for now, he refuses to think about any of _it_. Luckily, the others seem to share his desire to just be people getting to know each other for a second time. Tony is pretty sure that there probably won’t be any Avengers again and they will work separately. His insides twist painfully just by thinking about it but Tony knows that doesn’t equal to a goodbye. Also, a part of Tony believes that they will work better like this.

For his part, since Bucky had his own tortured emotions backfired Tony himself has been behaving a tad different when they’re in the same room. He tries not to make it too obvious but Tony feels like the guy deserves to be treated with more… care. Either way, Steve puts to shame Tony’s efforts, being all sweet and attentive with his _best guy_ (Tony swears he’s heard them calling each other that at some point and that shit is just too precious to ignore.)

Tony takes a look at the table: he isn’t the only one who’s woken up in a good mood, it seems. It gives the impression that everyone is filled with renewed optimism, their expressions free from worry and their bodies not carrying the usual tension.

They have breakfast in a companionable silence that Natasha (who arrives in sweats and her wet hair twisted in a towel) and Sam turn into light chatter, making sure that Gamora and Quill feel included. Tony really, _really_ doesn’t want to hex it but this is like a balm for his soul. He’s well-rested, his belly pleasingly full, and he’s surrounded by people who make him feel safe enough to drop his guard.

Quill is talking with Sam about how his wings work and if he would please show him some time. Sam asks Tony if he could explain it to Quill and then Bucky is tilting his body in Tony’s direction, almost bending over the table with his elbows digging in the wood. He isn’t joining the conversation but he looks enraptured by Tony’s words to such a point that he doesn’t notice Steve’s own gaze, eyes swimming in adoration and a soft smile making him look younger. Steve places a hand on Bucky’s back and his eyes don’t stray from him even when Drax and Mantis enter the kitchen.

Mantis has been refusing to stay too close to anyone who isn’t a Guardian; no one has commented on it or made a big deal out of it. Tony and Bucky share a similar guilt for obvious reasons; guilt that only increases when they notice that Mantis is careful around the others but turns wary when one or the two of them are in the room.

Drax keeps close to her and Gamora gets from her seat and settles by Mantis’ right, starting in hushed voices their own conversation. Tony has noticed that Drax tends to keep a hand on Mantis’ exposed skin or the other way around. Taking into account that’s everything she needs to feel other people’s emotions, it must be that Drax’s specific emotions can get to calm her down or even cheer her up. Since yesterday, they haven’t been doing it that often so whatever she must have been feeling must be wearing off. Tony has a ton of questions about how her empathic abilities work but he knows well enough that he shouldn’t voice them.

They spend some peaceful hours together—even Mantis decides to stay while they change locations and everyone takes a spot on the sectional couches. Steve and Bucky decide to stay in the kitchen washing the dishes even when Tony is the proud owner of a dishwasher.

“You could just say that you want some touchy-feely time together,” he says off-handedly. Bucky shows him the finger and immediately drops his hand, face turning shocked at his own automatic reaction. Tony can only laugh.

They leave them alone and turn on the TV.

“Um, so… we’re watching _Karate Kid_?” Tony’s face is burning.

“Well, we didn’t finish it last night,” Gamora says with a playful smile she throws his way. She’s sitting at Quill’s left so she can still be by Mantis’ side and the woman isn’t forced to be too close to Tony who is sitting at Quill’s right.

“And whose fault was that?” Quill says with a smirk that should be ridiculous but makes Tony’s mouth go dry. There’s a hand on his thigh and Tony has to move it away so he can finish the movie this time—he doesn’t drop Quill’s hand, though.

They’re half an hour into the movie when Steve sits down on Tony’s side and Bucky on Steve’s right. They pass bowls of popcorn and five minutes later Natasha joins all of them.

Tony’s eyes are damp for some reason. Maybe he’s allergic to the dust bunnies that are accumulating in the corners since Martha and her nephews have been on paid leave from the moment F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed Tony of the Benatar’s crashing. (Tony had felt this great pull to kiss Quill and never stop the moment the man told him the name of the ship and explained that he used to have one named the Milano that got destroyed.) However, the huge smile that has taken over his face can’t be blamed on the same thing.

They’re forced to play the movie from the very beginning when Rocket and Groot come and insist—with _passion_ —that they want to watch the movie, too. Tony ends dozing off on Quill’s shoulder, and perhaps he should talk with him and Gamora about how they can’t pet his head, at least not in public because he just loses himself in it, going boneless and his mind blanking out. Oh, he enjoys it, there’s no doubt, but he has a reputation. He doesn’t know what his reputation is anymore, though…

The movie ends but they can’t watch the sequel because they have things to do.

“Welp. I, unfortunately, can’t accompany you today, people,” Sam informs them, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, his voice coming out a little weird due to the strain. Tony makes a questioning noise. “I’m going to see my family— _finally_ —and then probably just stay at my sister’s house for a week. You know, doing some normal stuff. Probably going to cry like a baby when I see her and the kids.”

And just like that and after a bunch of goodbyes, Sam is gone.

“Don’t forget to visit!” Tony shouts after him, only half joking.

“Captain Falcon out!”

“It sounds just as dumb as you; great job!” Bucky’s words chase him out.

Silence follows.

“This is getting boring,” Drax comments off-handedly and just gets up and leaves. Bucky snorts and Steve’s eyes follow Drax, not believing the short interaction that just took place.

“What he said.” Rocket gets in front of Mantis. “Wanna come with me and chase some _squirrels_?” He pronounces the word with care, in a way that doesn’t sound natural coming from him. She shrugs her shoulders and gets to her feet. “Call us when we have to leave.”

Groot stays perched on the back of the couch, kicking his feet and observing. He’s probably going to leave in a minute or so.

Natasha, the sneaky spy she is, has already exited the room. Tony doesn’t know when that happened.

“So you’re not telling us where we’re going today?” Quill questions, eating the popcorn that has fallen into his lap.

“Nop,” Tony answers. “But don’t expect too much,” he warns, his fingers busy trying to untangle his hair. He clears his throat, feeling his ears heating up. “Sorry, there wasn’t a lot of time to organize anything more. I mean, money helps, _obviously_ , but—”

Gamora’s hand on his thigh silences him. She’s giving him a reassuring smile. “Tony, you really shouldn’t worry about that.”

“Yeah,” Quill pitches in, “before meeting you we were just going to roam the streets, which would have been a bit… conspicuous. And we don’t really have money— _dollars_ —so there isn’t a lot we could’ve done,” he ends with a shrug.

“I am Groot.”

Steve and Bucky, who are still at Tony’s right, look at Groot and then Gamora, waiting for a translation. The woman has a fond smile when she reaches a hand and Groot clings to it so she can bring him to her lap.

“He says that we’re smart,” Quill dutifully informs, “and that we would have found a way to have a good time.”

“I am Groot.”

Gamora and Quill laugh, though Gamora looks slightly chagrined for doing so, the corners of her lips trembling with her contained mirth. “We’re going to have a serious talk about that, Groot.”

The men at his right seem confused but Tony believes he knows what is going on. “Did he use a dirty word?” Gamora nods.

“He said: ‘or we would have… messed up,’” Quill supplies helpfully the translation.

“He didn’t use the word ‘mess,’ did he?” Tony asks already knowing the answer. Quill and Gamora shake their heads and Tony can feel Steve’s shoulder quiver with silent laughter. “Oh, you potty mouth,” Tony scolds him unable to fence a smile, and bops him where his nose should be. The little guy smiles.

“Hey, Steve,” Tony calls, turning his head to face the other man. “You two are still coming with us, right?”

“Mhm,” Steve confirms and nods his head. He’s holding Bucky’s metal hand and his cheeks turn pink when he sees Tony noticing. He holds Tony’s gaze and scowls when Tony smirks at him.

“Then it’s just the Guardians and you two.” Steve and Bucky send him twin questioning looks. “Natasha is accompanying Vision to Wakanda so they can inform Wanda as soon as possible about the news.” He snorts. “At least this time he won’t deactivate his transponder.”

The two men make almost the same sound of understanding.

Gamora gets up and Tony can hear the tap running when she pours herself a glass of water. He gets up and leaves the other three alone. Silly him for thinking this will make them sink into an awkward silence—Quill is already talking.

“So, you two…” he starts with some hesitance. “You got frozen for seventy years.”

“Yeah.”

“And HYDRA got _you_ for seventy years.”

“Peter,” Gamora says with a warning tone. She already knows what HYDRA is and being the more sensible of the two, Gamora must feel like this can’t be a topic to discuss with someone who’s been so many years under their thumb, following their orders. Tony hasn’t asked but he has the suspicions that she understand Bucky’s situation better than she lets on.

“It’s okay,” Bucky assures her with a polite smile. Still, there’s a new tension straining the muscles of his shoulders and back. Steve is glancing worriedly at him not so subtly.

“And then,” Quill continuous and Tony is grateful it sounds like he’s finishing whatever he has to say because he feels a bit on edge, too, “you two found each other.”

“Kinda,” Steve says with a half-shrug.

“HYDRA really made you fight each other?” Quill sounds in disbelief.

“They obviously underestimated the power of love,” Tony butts in, trying to lighten up the mood.

It appears to work when Bucky gives one of his snorts of laughter and Steve smiles his soft smile, the one he directs at the other man. Tony is pretty sure Steve doesn’t know he’s doing it. The three men start a different conversation, stilted at first but they don’t need a lot of time to get a feeling of each other and loosen up. It’s a bit funny because neither one of the three really knows what is going on in the twenty-first century, nor is it hard to realize it the moment they start talking.

Tony approaches Gamora who is perched on the kitchen table. She smiles when he leans against the table by her side.

“Hi,” Gamora says.

Tony isn’t sure how but he knows that something isn’t right. Maybe he’s noticed it in her eyes, which are duller but more attentive than normal; maybe in her closed-off stance, arms crossed and muscles tense, as if her body is in high alert, waiting for an attack. Those are some of the reasons why Tony doesn’t get closer than some feet.

“Hi,” Tony answers with a smile he directs at her. “How are you doing?”

Gamora tips her head to the side and regards him with a pensive look. “Could be better.” Tony will take it as a good sign that she isn’t trying to put on an act in front of him. “Sorry I wasn’t there this morning.”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry,” he hurries to assure her.

“But I wanted to be there, just—” Eyes on the ceiling, Gamora breathes out and then draws in a soothing breath. Her shoulders drop and she looks at him. “It will happen more times, Tony.” It sounds like a warning.

“Well…” Tony doesn’t want to give her empty promises so he doesn’t rush his words, giving himself a minute to think over what he wants to say. “That’s not a, uh… break dealer, if that’s something you… fear could happen?” Yes, that went smooth as silk.

He chances a glance at Gamora. She has a knowing smirk curving her lips and Tony wonders when he lost all his game. She slides along the table until they bump hips. “I’m glad to hear that.” She hooks one arm around his own and presses her cheek to his shoulder. “So you’re definitely in?”

“As part of your relationship? Yeah, of course.”

Would it be stupid for Tony to feel giddy for saying those words out loud?

“ _Our_ , Tony. It’s our relationship now.”

Call him whatever you want, but Tony feels like he could start soaring the skies without wearing an Iron Man armor if it wasn’t for Gamora’s hand anchoring him down.

Tony wraps a hand around her bicep (which oh _woah_ ) and rests his cheek against her temple. “You can talk to me about it if you want. Doesn’t have to be now; just when you feel like it. When you’re ready.”

Gamora nods and hums placidly. Tony decides to give himself the pleasure of just basking in the comfort. The compound is progressively getting emptier again, that’s true, but this time Tony knows it won’t last forever. The Guardians will come back (he’s really trying not to think otherwise) and all the other will come visit (he’s really trying not to think otherwise.) Steve even said that they can _Skype_ and that he shouldn’t worry about him not coming back to the compound because “there is no way Bucky will forget about all of Tony’s inventions and all the questions he needs answered.” (Less than a second after saying the words, Steve had rushed to explain that it wasn’t the only reason and that he would visit the compound at least every month.) And when Tony lets his mind wander, even with all his pessimism, he can see a future with these people in his life.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us? It won’t be for long.” Gamora asks him after a few minutes enjoying the calm atmosphere—there is an undertone of hope, Tony can tell. He doesn’t need for her to clarify what she means.

“I don’t…” His voice breaks and he has to clear his throat. “I don’t really feel… comfortable with the idea of going to space.” A pause filled with uncertainty. “Right now.”

“Don’t feel compelled to come, Tony. You really don’t have to, not now, not ever, because we will come back to you.” Gamora slips a strong arm around his waist and, even though he doesn’t fully believe the promise in her words, Tony feels himself deflate like his body has been packed with apprehension.

Gamora pulls away from the table without releasing her grip around him and gets in front of Tony, tugging at his waist so they are facing each other on their feet. She’s only an inch or two shorter so she doesn’t have any problem to reach his lips. It’s only a peck but the sweetness of the gesture warms the man’s insides and he nuzzles at her cheek.

Out of nowhere, an unexpected intruder cuts short their moment. Quill has his arms around them both, crushing the two of them against his chest.

“Oh, this is so cute,” he states, a kiss being pressed to Tony’s forehead. The man in question groans and makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away. After a minute, Gamora frees herself with a roll of her eyes but Tony stays under Quill’s arm, deciding that it isn’t so awful.

“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice filters into the room, “Happy is waiting for you.”

“Oh, it’s that late already?” The A.I. doesn’t answer but a hologram of a clock materializes in front of Tony. “Okay, then we should get going. Fry, alert the others and show them how to get to the garage.”

“On it.”

“We’re going already?” Quill questions with a frown. “What about Peter? He hasn’t come yet.”

Steve and Bucky have joined their circle and are looking expectantly at Tony.

“Peter said we could start without him,” Tony explains. It seems it wasn’t the appropriate thing to say because now four pairs of eyes are almost glaring at him.

“Yeah, well, we’re not,” Quill states simply, not leaving space for negotiation. Tony wasn’t really going to—he really wants to see Peter.

Today is only the kid’s first day of school after the attack. He spent Monday and Tuesday “resting” and under observation, but Peter drove all the compound—along with his aunt—crazy until they agreed that he could resume his classes. There’s already an itch under Tony’s skin and a pull in his chest, tugging him in Peter’s direction. The whole compound has spent a great amount of time talking him down from sending an Iron Man armor to escort and guard the kid. Peter, probably sensing Tony’s worry, has texted him twice along the day to tell him that he’s doing more than okay. 

“We could pick him up from school,” Tony proposes and everyone agrees with a nod. “Fry, inform May that she doesn’t have to pick Peter from school.”

“Okay, boss. The rest of the Guardians are already in the underground garage.” Tony surveys the rec room and notes that Groot isn’t with them but doesn’t worry about it—Groot can be really independent.

“Has Drax put on a t-shirt?” Tony waits for an answer but doesn’t get any. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Rocket is trying to convince him to get back to his room and pick a t-shirt.”

“Uh. Right. Well, tell him he’s not coming without a shirt.”

“Drax the Destroyer says he will but doesn’t like the idea,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. relays the message.

“He has sensitive nipples.”

Tony turns his head to study Quill’s expression. No, Quill isn’t playing a joke. Tony settles on saying, “That’s good to know… I guess. Okay, people, let’s get moving.”

They have to get out of the compound to get to the garage where Happy is expecting them, so the five of them get to enjoy a walk. Luck is smiling down at Tony because it’s a sunny day with a pleasant breeze that rocks the trees, not cold enough for anyone to need to wear more than a warm sweater.

“I don’t remember ordering any Iron Man sweaters,” Tony comments, looking at Bucky’s sweater and Quill’s hoodie. They have very different designs but the Iron Man pics are unmistakable.

“You didn’t?” Steve says, turning to glance at Tony since he and Bucky are walking in front of the three of them. “Bucky said t—”

Steve’s arm is yanked. “Shut up, Steve,” Bucky orders without looking back.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he really wishes for some hint about how to react or what to do in such a situation. He would have stopped on his tracks if it wasn’t for Gamora’s arm around his waist and his own around her shoulders.

Steve turns his head again to direct a smile at Tony. Huh. Life can be really strange. He has the desire to ask Bucky if he knows that Iron Man is _him_ , that he’s technically wearing a sweater of _Tony_ , but he holds onto those questions.

“What-what about you, Peter?” Tony shakes his head trying to dislodge his intrusive thoughts.

“Oh.” Quill looks down at his hoodie as if it has appeared out of nowhere. “I asked F.R.I.D.A.Y. to help me in the internet so I could find a cool design.” Quill is beaming down at his choice of clothing and Tony would be a robot if he didn’t feel anything looking at the man’s warm expression. Tony gets his arm around Quill’s waist and pulls him closer so planting a kiss on his cheek will be easier. Quill leans easily into his side for the rest of the walk.

They finally join the others—sans Drax and Rocket, who must still be getting a t-shirt for the big guy. Mantis is holding Groot in her arms and the two look very focused on their conversation.

“OhmyGodTony,” Steve says in one breath, lips parted and eyes wide open with disbelief. “We’re really going to pick Peter up from school in _that_?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Tony asks, forcibly oblivious, one corner of his lips twitching upwards.

“The kid’s gonna kill you,” Bucky mutters but the guy is staring at the tour bus with wonder and crinkles around his eyes. Tony shrugs without any preoccupation.

“Jesus, Tony, finally!” Happy is engulfing the man in a bear hug even before he’s finished his sentence, arms tight around him. “You owe me a movie, boss.”

Happy pulls away but his hands are still holding onto his shoulders and Tony likes the closeness. Oh, he’s missed Happy, more than he had realized.

“Hey, Happy. How are you doing? I’ve missed you. Everything ready?” Tony rushes out the words before he can back off.

Happy studies him with a steady gaze from the tip of his toes to the crown of his head. “I’ve missed you, too.” Another pensive, searching look. “I would ask how are _you_ doing but guess I already know the answer.”

Tony smirks and pulls away with a final pat to Happy’s shoulder. “Believe it or not, Hap, I’m doing pretty good.”

It doesn’t seem like Happy believes him 100%. He takes a look at everyone else that’s in the garage with them and it’s like it doesn’t even faze him that two ex-war criminals are somehow here along with a green woman, another woman who has antennas growing out of her head, and a tree-kid. Happy hasn’t mentioned anything about the talking raccoon, and the guy that, in addition to his pretty different body appearance, is just plain weird.

Happy doesn’t add anything else about it and after Drax and Rocket come back (“Come on, what is with the Iron Man t-shirts?”) they all board the bus.

 

The tour bus driven by Happy arrives on time, less than ten minutes before the bell rings. Tony has spent the entire drive trying not to fidget too much, feeling between exhilarated and apprehensive. He’s excited about the time he’s going to spend with all these people he cares about on different levels—still, for the past days, he hasn’t been able to shake the certainty that something is going to fuck up their winning streak.

After just five minutes, they all ended up on the open upper deck, enjoying the fresh air and the sun. Mantis had enjoyed it more than anyone else—she had imitated Gamora and raised up her arms, the hair of the two women sitting together being flickered by the wind. Drax had taken off his shirt just a minute later, promising to put it on the moment they had to disembark the vehicle. Tony was sure Rocket and Groot had been enjoying themselves too, and Steve and Bucky were… wrapped up in each other, for a lack of better words.

Tony hadn’t been able to bear it for long and finally had had to stand up and do something, which in this situation meant taking the microphone and starting to talk everyone’s ear off. The weirdest and most unexpected part was that almost everyone had at least one question to ask him (except Drax, who had fallen asleep) and they even laughed at his lame jokes. There were questions about the landscape, about how much Earth knew about alien life (something Tony and Steve were a bit uncomfortable to discuss and everyone just ended up forgetting about the question); Gamora had questions about the limited fauna they encountered and even had some questions about the flora. She was serious on learning about their planet, something Tony found kind of endearing.

Quill, on the other hand, had a million and one questions about the superheroes (or the “new” ones, as he had said) of Earth and their feats. Bucky had joined his interrogation, most of the time just teasing Steve mercilessly and, lucky Tony, even recounting some embarrassing stories about Steve. The blonde, as a vendetta, had told some embarrassing incidents Bucky had had the leading role in.

At a certain point, Gamora and Quill had to get up and drag Tony away from the mic and sit him between them. It had been a great idea because between the two of them they accomplish the almost impossible feat of appeasing Tony’s frantic energy. It was only dormant but at least the genius got to be snuggled between the two of them, carefree and enjoying the good weather and pretty view. Tony had pillowed his head on Quill’s shoulder and just enjoyed the chatter.

Happy parks the tour bus in two empty spots in the parking lot.

“We better stay here, _honeypie_ ,” Bucky says to Steve, one hand landing on his sleeve when Steve gets to his feet.

Tony really wants to comments on that thing the two of them have going on, where they call each other the most ridiculous pet names as if it were some competition, but he doesn’t want to cause them any discomfort or for them to stop doing something that makes them look so carefree. The fact that the two men feel safe enough to do that in front of them, in front of Tony, must be an indication that they’re going down the right path and mending the trust factor. Tony himself feels confident enough in front of all of them to let himself be tactile with Gamora and Quill—he’s even hugged Steve once or twice which felt great and awkward at the same time, but not forced.

“Yeah. Perhaps we should stay here while you go get Peter,” Steve suggests and Bucky nods his agreement, patting Steve’s thigh when he settles down. Then, he turns his head to watch the kids and parents that are gawking at the bus without hiding their prying stares.

“Peter’s gonna kill you,” Bucky singsongs with a grin.

Tony can’t answer because suddenly Drax snores himself awake, jolting in his seat. “Oh, we’ve finally arrived,” he says and, _thank God_ , hurries to put on his t-shirt. The not so good news is that the man descends the stairs to the lower-deck before Tony can do anything about it and exits the bus. Tony is quick to follow him but almost falls backward when he collides with the big guy’s big back who doesn’t even notice that another being has crashed against him—he just continues stretching his muscles and yawning.

“Where is your son?” Drax questions, searching their surroundings.

Tony groans with pain while he gets his feet under himself and gets up, one hand rubbing at his thigh where he banged it against the bus.

“Peter is not my son,” he clarifies, scowling at the freaking giant. Jesus _Christ_ that hurts.

Drax gives him a look that makes Tony feel like he’s just told a lie to the man but… he obviously hasn’t; he would remember if he was someone’s dad. But the frown directed at him is pretty intense. “He’s not,” Tony insists with a far weaker tone.

“Ah,” Drax says, squinting. ‘‘He once called you Mr. Dad.’’

Tony doesn’t even have time to emit the sound of utter disbelief that’s building up in his throat before there is a shriek near them and a frantic voice yells, ‘‘Dude!! I told you it was an accident!’’

Peter is barreling toward them, backpack hanging from his shoulder and bumping against his side, completely oblivious of his aunt shouting after him.

“That’s not what happened, Mr. Stark!” Peter is quick to make clear when he reaches them. He’s grabbed Tony’s arm and looks like he wants to shake him until Tony believes him.

“Calm down, Peter.” Tony gets his hands on the kid’s forearms and tries to catch his eye. “I believe you.” No, he doesn’t. Peter is a mess of a kid and Tony can perfectly picture him saying something like ‘Mr. Dad.’

May has caught up with them and sends Tony an arched eyebrow over Peter’s head, her unimpressed expression making Tony laugh silently. “Hi, May.”

“Hello, Tony.” Peter steps away from him and May gets her arm around her nephew, dragging him closer and kissing his hair.

Tony has noticed May’s need to be close to Peter, to make sure one way or another that he’s all right, safe. How could he not when he feels the same way. Now the two adults are crowding Peter and asking him too many questions about his day and how was school, about how are his hands and arms healing today. May and Tony are aware that they’re acting a bit like helicopter moms but the both of them are going to need some more time until they can feel less anxious regarding Peter’s safety and health.

“I think you better get in the bus,” Quill advises from the door. “People are staring.”

“Don’t worry, that’s because of me, I’m just that famous.” May rolls her eyes but Tony can see one corner of her lips twitching upward. Peter snickers but then sees Quill and his eyes bug out of his head and his smile turns into something blinding.

“Peter!” he exclaims throwing his arms in the air.

“Peter!” Tony hasn’t turned to see the man but he’s sure he’s imitating Peter… kid-Peter, that is. And, yes, of course they’re still doing that _thing_.

“They always do that, right?” Tony answers May’s question with a single nod.

The two of them observe the kid with a smile while he hugs Quill and then Gamora—who lifts him from the ground—, saying his hellos and answering Quill’s questions about his day, then asking the other two his own.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Tony inquiries, turning to face May.

“No, thank you, Tony, and I have to go to work in…” she checks the time in her phone, “ten seconds.”

“I could—”

“No.”

“I should have seen that coming.”

“Don’t forget that he’s sleeping—”

“—at the compound and he has school tomorrow morning,” he interrupts her like a perfect brat. She scowls at him and Tony feels like he’s about to get chewed up, but May knows him well enough by now to know that he’s not trying to annoy her or be difficult. He gives her a smile and May just sighs, defeated.

“I’ve charmed you, Miss Parker.”

Tony almost bursts out laughing when May turns her back to him, totally ignoring his teasing, and her long hair hits him square on the face.

Maybe she has to hurry but May spends a few minutes saying goodbye to Peter and hugging him, the kid melting right into her arms (the adults aren’t the only ones affected), and then bids her goodbyes with everyone else in two seconds. She gets near Tony and says, “Take good care of my kid, Mr. Stark.”

“I will,” he promises with a far more somber tone.

“I know.” She sounds honest and Tony feels his chest loosening and his lungs expanding. A minute later, she’s gone.

“Hi, Mantis!” Peter exclaims and Tony turns in time to see the kid waving at the woman, even though only her eyes and the top of her head are visible from the upper deck—and her antennas, of course. She answers with a little wave and then Tony and Gamora are ushering the two Peters inside.

Peter says hi to Happy and then hurries the stairs to the upper deck, leaving his backpack on an empty seat when Tony tells him so.

“Woah, Mr. Stark, this is awesome!” the kid exclaims from the second floor.

“We’ve packet food so you better eat something!” Tony raises his voice so Peter will hear him. Addressing Happy he says, “We better get out of here; people have already started taking pics.”

“Heading to our first stop,” Happy mumbles under his breath and they exit the school grounds.

In the open-top, everyone is already chatting, different conversations taking place in the large and breezy space. Tony looks at all of them, at all these weird and exceptional people—beings, reunited together one way or another… because of Tony. And maybe even _for_ him. Tony blinks his eyes, needing another moment to process what is in front of him because this… _this_ is too good, this is the kind of luck he never lets himself believe he could have some day. All these mismatched people here together feels right, feels perfect.

Tony doesn’t have much more time to daydream because there’s a rough hand gripping his fingers. Tony looks at his feet and finds Groot already staring up at him. The hand gripping his own has elongated so Groot can reach Tony’s.

“Hey, little guy.”

Groot doesn’t answer, only tugs at Tony until they join the others, blending right in Gamora’s and Steve’s conversation.

Tony knows it then: this is going to be a good day, one that will lead to a good tomorrow.

 

“Oh, come on, Gamora!” Quill exclaims, slamming one of the pillows on the bed while they get it ready. Tony stays at a safe distance, hiding his smile with a hand.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say, Peter,” Gamora answers. “It just wasn’t all that great.”

“But! Gamora!” He’s almost whining now, his face scrunched up with disbelief, lips parted and arms flailing at his sides. Tony steps in and helps Gamora with the clean sheets when it seems like Quill won’t be doing much helping when in such a state of utter puzzlement.

“It was just the Empire State Building, Peter,” Tony pitches in, his voice not giving away his amusement. “It honestly wasn’t the best part of the tour.”

“But! Tony!” Tony is so close to cracking up. Quill is easy to wind up and he hasn’t yet caught up on what he and Gamora have been doing for the past ten minutes. “It was the Empire State and there wasn’t anyone else there and we got to watch the sunset!”

It had been amazing and Tony knows Gamora had been beyond impressed with the view; he had been able to see it in the way she had fallen silent, her eyes lost in the colors of the sky while all of them contemplated the sun sink behind the buildings.

“I never got to see the Empire State,” Quill mutters way too quiet, then. He looks lost in thought or a memory. Tony and Gamora share a look and Tony gets closer to Quill, careful to telegraph his moves.

“It was nice,” Gamora says. She’s uncertainly eyeing Quill but not approaching him. It seems like she wants to do something to make things better but doesn’t know what so she decides to keep her distance for now.

Tony gets an arm around Quill’s bare waist while Gamora finishes getting ready the bed, keeping an eye on the two of them. “We were going to visit New York with my grandparents that year—the year my mom died, I mean.” Tony squeezes his waist and Quill leans further into him. “We said that mom would come with us when she got better but… they knew she wouldn’t make it. Pretty sure I knew it, too.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say—knows there really isn’t anything to say that will make the pain go away. He shepherds Quill in the bed’s direction and helps him get under the covers. Gamora lies down at Quill’s right and Tony at his left. F.R.I.D.A.Y. turns the lights off and Tony plasters himself to Quill’s side, the man’s skin hot to the touch. Tony gets one arm around him, his fingers grazing Gamora’s skin.

They keep in silence, their relaxed breaths filling the space. “Honey.” Quill snickers and Tony feels the tension gradually sip out of the other man’s muscles—even Gamora laughs at the lame attempt at lightening up the mood.

“What?” Quill mumbles into Tony’s lips after the man has given him a light peck. There’s a clear smile in his voice and Tony can feel the shape against his own mouth.

Truth be told, Tony doesn’t know how to follow; he wasn’t really going to say anything, only wanted to make Quill feel better, to put into his face an expression that suited him better than the one of sorrow.

“The Empire State was nice,” Gamora interjects, almost sounding sheepish. Tony can see her even in the darkness, one arm flung over Quill’s chest and her cheek pillowed on his shoulder. “Really nice.”

“My favorite part was having to wake up Drax every five minutes,” Tony comments out loud, his eyes closed. He’s getting old; he can’t keep up with the youngsters. “We should have let him stay in the bus when he said he didn’t want to go to MoMA, then the guard wouldn’t have had to confront him when he fell asleep.”

“He said he didn’t want to go to the zoo and then he loved it,” Quill points out. He’s holding Tony’s hand against his chest, and Tony can feel his consciousness being pushed into darkness.

“Now that we’re saying it out loud, all this day sounds suspiciously like just one long field trip,” Tony makes himself mumble from where he’s smashed his face against Quill’s shoulder and immediately lets out an ugly and sonorous yawn.

“I liked Coney Island,” Gamora states and the earnestness in her voice makes Tony smile and snuggle closer so he can touch her more easily—she returns the touch. “And I like Terran art. Are there any more _museums_?”

“Really?” Quill questions, incredulous.

“There are many, many more,” Tony assures her. How is he now going to fall asleep if he can’t stop smiling like a fool? “And more botanic gardens,” he adds, remembering Gamora’s silent amazement the moment she stepped into the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. She had held his hand and just studied every little thing her eyes landed on. Tony hadn’t dared say a word and disrupt the moment, even guiding her away from the rest of their group so no one would distract her. (And, yes, they got almost two hours of empty Brooklyn Botanic Garden just for them.)

“I’m not going to another garden with Captain America and Sargent Barnes,” Quill declares with a firm conviction. “I swear they were _this close_ ,” (Tony doesn’t open his eyes to see how close) “to start making out or something.”

Tony snorts but can’t contradict him on this one. “They’re a pair of romantic grandpas. Leave them be, Peter.” Quill makes a sound between frustration and horror. “And it’s not like Rocket made things any easier.”

“What else were you expecting from him?” Gamora pitches in, words slurred but letting them know that she’s still listening to them.

“Good thing New Yorkers aren’t easily impressed.”

“What would impress them if not a talking raccoon that threatens people with guns when he gets mistaken for a weird-looking dog?” Quill wonders out loud.

“The talking raccoon actually biting them.”

Gamora outright laughs then. Tony feels the vibration of her laughter travel through Quill’s body and reach him. “That woman _petted_ him, Tony,” she reminds him. “I would have done the same thing.”

“I’ll give you that,” he concedes with an amused snort.

The conversation makes it to its end. Tony inhales deeply and then exhales, consciously making his muscles relax, going boneless when Quill starts drawing forms over his skin with his fingers. With his eyes closed, he can feel Gamora rearranging and getting comfy on the other end of the bed.

“But we’re going to Missouri alone, right? Just the three of us.” Quill asks, hope dripping out of his words. Tony feels like he’s needed some extra courage to formulate the question.

“Of course, honey,” Tony answers with a smile, patting Quill’s chest in an appeasing way. “Steve and his _fella_ —”

“They’re old,” Quill says as if it’s news and not one of Tony’s favorite methods to annoy Steve. Tony snickers but rapidly regains his track of thought. “They said they’ll stay with Drax and the other kids and entertain them while we’re away.”

“Good.” The word sounds too flat and Tony knows he’s trying not to show what he’s really feeling and its true intensity.

“You’ll show us around, right, Peter?” Tony asks, trying to get the conversation in the right direction so Quill will say something else, give some more information about what is going on inside his mind.

“I want to see where you lived as a kid,” Gamora says.

Quill doesn’t answer right away but Tony and Gamora can hear him swallow. They give him some time.

“I don’t… I don’t remember a lot but I’ll see what I can do,” the words tremble a bit on their way out but Tony tries not to worry. It’s understandable: the guy is going to revisit his childhood, going back to the place where he lived with his mom, his old family—a place he hasn’t set foot in for decades.

“Don’t worry.” Tony strokes a hand up and down his chest until Quill entwines their fingers so he’ll stay still. “We’re smart; we’ll find a way to have a good time.” Tony is delighted when the other two laugh and it doesn’t sound forced. What can he say? He’s an easy man to please. “And I’m rich, so…”

Quill hums in agreement but Tony can tell that the man has already been swept away by his own thoughts and musings. Maybe he should let him be but Tony knows he won’t be able to fall asleep until he knows that Quill isn’t upset about going back to his hometown.

“Do you want to see your family, Peter?” Gamora asks with a gentle voice. Tony doesn’t know how she does it but he’s impossibly grateful.

He opens his eyes and looks at her hand where is stroking Quill’s stubbled cheek. The man makes an aborted sound but falls silent. “No. Don’t think—No, better not to. I mean…”

“You don’t have to do it now,” Tony tries to alleviate the distress in the other man’s speech.

Tony’s heart aches when Quill shifts under the covers and lets go of his hand. He makes to slide away, give him some space, but Quill stops him with a hand to his arm. Tony searches his face and only finds an unmasked vulnerability. So he slides closer and, just like Gamora, gets his arms around Quill. Tony wants to make things right somehow but know himself better, and that’s why he doesn’t open his mouth. He shares a look with Gamora, wanting to know that he’s not alone in his uncertainty. Gamora senses his gaze and her furrowed expression turns into a little smile.

“It doesn’t matter what you decide to do, Peter, we will be by your side.” It’s simple but even Tony can feel something heavy vacate his chest. Gamora’s words sound self-assured and the strength she radiates makes the two men feel some semblance of safety. The lives they live are anything but safe so the change is appreciated. Quill’s probably had enough time to get used to that effect Gamora has but it’s still new for Tony—it still disorients him.

One hand around Tony’s torso and the other clutching Gamora’s close to his heart, Quill nods his head, the strands of hair tickling Tony’s nose. Instead of moving away to avoid them, Tony buries his face in the soft hair and kisses Quill’s head, hiding the open affection that must be clear in his face.

“We better get some sleep; it’s already too late and we have a lot to do tomorrow,” Tony reminds them.

They all snuggle closer.

Tony knows Quill will probably wake them up with his snoring and kick them in his sleep; Gamora probably won’t get a full night’s sleep and will have to wander the apartment alone while the two men are still in bed; Tony will probably have a nightmare or two, will cling too much to Quill or whoever is closer, and will hog the blankets.

It’s unbelievable what the last two weeks have brought to Tony’s doorstep. It’s crazy how things Tony thought unfixable are being mended. And it’s even crazier how a crashed spaceship he thought was going to turn into another alien invasion actually brought a family.

Yes, tomorrow definitely sounds like a good idea, and the next night they’ll spend together in bed, too. And the time he’ll spend waiting for the Guardians to come back sounds more bearable now, as well as the days between being alone and seeing Steve and the others. Tomorrow sound like something he wants to see happen because he’s not alone and he won’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, folks, I just didn’t feel motivated to finally end it and every time I made myself open the document I couldn’t write more than 200 words or even 70.
> 
> Oh Jeez, only just realized this is the final chapter. It has ended. Bye. I’m gonna weep a little.
> 
> This being said, I would recommend you folks to reread the fic (if you feel like it) because since the moment I posted the first chapter I’ve been slowly editing everything, something I mentioned a while ago. I don’t know, I just feel like you guys would enjoy the more polished version, so to speak, and reading the fic without having to wait for the next update makes the experience more enjoyable.
> 
> P.S.: Pretty sure I’ll write another fic, a Stucky one, but don’t know when and what is exactly going to be about. Been thinking about one of those fics where Steve doesn’t know Bucky and they meet when he’s the Winter Soldier and he helps him escape HYDRA or something and there’s a shit-ton of angst and hurt/comfort and I’ll drown you all in FLUFF. AND I have an idea for a stucky short story but don't know when I'll write it.
> 
> BYEEE I'LL MISS YOU GUYS
> 
> EDIT: the short story is posted! Visit my profile to read it :)


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